A Man Forgotten
by StarGzer
Summary: Scott Lancer finds trouble on the way to Ironton. An older story, a repost from 2009 with a different ending.
1. Chapter 1

** An older story from 2009. Thanks to Karen F. for providing the beta, so very long ago! I never liked the ending on this so I'm re-writing it ;-).

 **A Man Forgotten**

 **Chapter 1**

They were trying to kill him. Only one thing mattered-escape. He had to get away as fast as possible. Tree branches slapped and heavy underbrush clutched and grappled, threatening to tug him down with every step he took. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the silhouette of a man raising his rifle. The weapon belched fire and the loud report split the quietness of the late evening air. His arm suddenly stung, the throbbing spurring him on, keeping cadence with his charging run through the thick woods. His right hand snaked upwards to splint the pain and came away wet and reddened for the effort.

Their voices, loud and harsh, edged nearer.

Stopping, he swayed, turning his head in one direction and then the other. What compelled him to take the small opening between the two trees he couldn't fathom a guess, but he stepped over the bulbous tree root. Movement was close behind him now, quick and darting. He started blindly past the oak and heard the crack of a second gun. His vision exploded into whiteness, and he tumbled, over and over.

#-#-#-#-#

Eli Mathias, his mouth set in a long thin line, knelt beside the empty trap. Pressing the stock of his rifle against the ground, he heaved himself upwards. He'd been up since four and out to the traps by six and the only measure of his hard work was the three skinny rabbits now hanging from the tether line on his saddle. He tied one more knot in the line to secure the animals then whistled shrilly. A soft rustling in the leaves to his right told him Toby was nearby. He whistled again, this time less patiently. Toby's misshapen yellow-brown head popped out of the brush. He grinned at the sight and jammed a hand into the pocket of his shabby woolen coat while he waited for the dog. Toby may have had only one ear but he could hear as well, or better, than any other dog he knew of-when he had a mind to listen. It was a plain fact that he wore stubborn just as well as some men.

"Tobe! C'mon, it's time to go!"

The dog bounded up and out of the leaves, shaking bits of twigs and underbrush from its shaggy fur. Reaching Eli, he bumped and rubbed his massive head against the man's thigh, smearing slaver on the rough fabric of his canvas trousers.

"Look, we haven't got time right now. Wait 'til we get home, Joe'll play with you." The man shook the dog off and mounted up.

Two more trap lines to see to then back to the house, hopefully by early afternoon, if he was quick about it. Joe would be done at the Walker place by then and he wanted to be home. Toby hurried off in his ground-eating dog-trot, nose held high in that peculiar way he had of scenting the wind. He caught snatches of Toby's white belly flashing through the greenery every now and then, the only way of telling if the dog was actually following or not.

Coming to the usual turn-off, he paused and whistled once more. Silence greeted him. He pulled his roan around and scanned the area. It wasn't unusual for Toby to run off; he'd always find his way back home, but something seemed wrong here. Hearing a few strained barks in the distance, he put heels to his horse's sides and galloped towards the sound.

Riding up from a dip in the trail, he saw Toby, his mouth pulled back in a panting grimace, standing close to the body of a man. Raised hackles outlined the dog's spine from neck to tail. Abruptly, the animal pounced on front paws and gave a mewling bark, the same sound that Eli had heard before.

He remained mounted and slowly pulled out his rifle. The dog edged closer to the prone man, snuffling low.

"Get away!" he ordered.

The dog turned to look at Eli, his head cocked to one side as if in question.

"Don't give me that bull, Tobe, I said get away!" Toby gave a short whine and peeled off at the command.

Eli studied the man. He was facing the stranger's back and saw that one arm had been caught under the body. His head was tucked at an odd angle, almost curled-in like he was sleeping. Sparing a glance upwards, he saw remnants of the chaotic pathway he'd taken down the hill. Eli sucked his teeth. Helluva first step. Whoever he was, he likely fell over and rolled down the sharp embankment into the shallow ditch where he now laid.

He dismounted and moved a little closer. The man's brown-checked shirt was the worse for wear with a split from shoulder to elbow. The gun holster had been twisted around but was clear of any weapon. He cocked his rifle as Toby padded silently up to his side.

"Hey, Mister!" Eli waited for a response but the only sound was the dog's panting and the creak of leather as his horse shifted its weight under the saddle.

"You need to know that there's a forty-four aimed at your back, if this is some type of foolishness."

He stepped up to the man's bent leg and nudged it with his foot. He kicked a little harder. Toby had moved to the opposite end and thrust his muzzle into the man's hair, inhaling deeply, a worried low whine escaping his throat.

He bent down on one knee and placed his hand on the man's back, feeling the heat captured there. Seeing the bruised and abraded shoulder under the ripped fabric of the sleeve, he hesitated for the briefest of moments, then laid the rifle down and pulled the man over.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the man's bloodied head. The tear in his scalp had been hidden from view before, but it was now sharply visible against the man's pale features. It was fairly long, too, stretching from his temple past the ear. The blood had crusted there already, mixing in with soil to form a dirty scab and coloring his blond hair orange. But it had bled, and plenty long, from the amount of rust-colored stains on his collar and shirt front. There was more dried blood covering the man's arm, all the way down to the wrist. A piece of tattered paper, stained a deep reddish-brown, tipped out of the man's curled hand.

He let out a long breath. "Oh, Mister, you did it up real good."

He let his hand linger on the man's chest, feeling a light flutter against his palm. "But you're still alive, at least for now anyhow." He looked back at the roan. "The real question is how to get you up on that horse." Toby nudged his arm up with two hard pushes of his head and looked down at the unconscious man with attentive eyes. Eli tapped his finger alongside the dog's nose to shoo him away and started to make preparations.

It had been no mean feat getting the stranger home. The man was tall, and he was heavier than his lean build gave away. In fact, he'd been dead weight since he hadn't come awake yet. Eli had given up trying to rouse him and had eventually eased the man across the saddle and tied him on. He figured that in his state, the man would never know about the three dead rabbits bumping against his hip all the way home.

He laid him down onto Joe's bed, not thinking twice about it until he saw the two booted feet hanging off the end. More than a few inches too short, but it would have to do. It reminded him of Joe, and the first time he saw his son's bare feet sticking out of the covers and off the end. He'd thought that Joe had hunkered down under the covers too far in bed, but he'd been wrong. The boy was just growing too fast; his arms and legs ridiculously too long for the rest of him.

The boots were removed after some hard tugging, then he scraped up a chair to the bedside and sat down to look at the damage. He cut away what was left of the brown shirt and frowned when he saw the man's arm. There was a hole in the outer edge of it; congealed blood darkening the otherwise bright red wound. He felt behind it, found a second hole, and frowned harder. A bullet had done the injury, he'd bet money on it. The ribcage was dotted with bright purple bruises but nothing appeared to be broken. His fingers brushed across an old scar near the man's left shoulder, the raised neat circle of dark brown flesh standing out from the light tan of his torso. It looked like this man and bullets were no strangers to one another.

Joyful barking and a slamming of the front door interrupted his thoughts.

The pantry doors were opened and closed. "Hey, Pa! I'm back from the Walker's…what's to eat? Mrs. Walker's gonna pay me for the chores tomorrow. She said I did such a good job that I might get extra! Did you catch any rabbits today?"

Joe was home.

"What'cha doing in my ro…" his son's voice trailed off. He stood in the doorway, his speech garbled by a mouth half full of chewed apple. The expression on his face went from startled to puzzled to alarmed all at once. He flicked his head to the side in a gesture that was pure Joe, tossing long bangs out of his eyes.

"Who's he?" he said, pointing with the bitten apple to the man on his bed.

Eli pivoted on his chair to face the stranger again. "I don't know just yet, Toby found him. He's been hurt, though. Come here and help me turn him, I've got to get this shirt out from underneath his back."

He heard the thud of the apple being dropped on the dresser top. "I'm going to push him to his side, just hold on to his shoulder."

"Pa, his head…"

Joe's voice echoed his same revulsion when he'd first turned the man over, yet held a tinge of morbid curiosity only a twelve year old could muster. "I know, son, I know. It needs to be sewn but it stopped bleeding before I got to him, it'll be all right for a little longer."

"Hold his shoulder now, but be careful of it."

No new wounds were found, but there was a light crisscrossing of white marks peppering the man's shoulders with a few trailing further down the back. He looked up at Joe; his son was transfixed, staring hard at the mess on the man's head. Quickly, he pulled out the shirt remnants.

"Okay, lay him back. Easy now."

"Is he gonna die?"

The question, asked tentatively, gave him pause. It was the same one that Joe had quietly asked of him a year ago, when his mother had gotten so very sick. And it was the same question that had been going through his head since Toby had discovered the man. It seemed odd to have it finally spoken aloud. He'd been wrong back then, in that cold, early spring; he had to cut through ground as hard as ice to bury her. He didn't want to be wrong this time.

He stood and laid his hand on Joe's shoulder, feeling the youthful sturdiness of it. "I don't know. But we'll get him cleaned and stitched, then it'll be up to him, I suppose."

Joe looked away, trailing his finger tips across the picture frame on the table by the bed. "Pa"-he was frowning a little-"you gonna leave him here?"

He waited for the next part of the question which should have been "in my bed?" but it never came, and that was surprising. It seemed his son was growing up.

"You'll sleep with me until he…comes around, then we'll see." He wrapped his arm around Joe's shoulders and brought him in close. His son didn't pull away from the affection as he'd been doing so for the last few months. Instead, Eli felt a small hand creep to his lower back and cling to his belt loops. His earlier thought came back and he recanted, maybe there was still a little bit of "boy" left in his son after all.

The lamps had been turned down low for the night, save for the one in Joe's room. Eli sat in the hard-backed chair and contemplated the still form in his son's bed. He wasn't that old, maybe a couple handful of years younger than himself, give or take a few. His clothes, boots and holster were of good quality, or at least they were. He had checked the man's pockets, but there was nothing in them. All he had was the decrepit envelope with a single name written across the front-Daniel Sorensen.

The white bandage encircling his head made him look younger while bruising had spread and seeped a little into his cheek, adding frailness. He thought about the bullet wounds and other marks on the man's body, and was beset by a sense of uneasiness. This man had known some pain in his life all right. But Eli only knew two types of men who ever wore faded scars like the stranger did on his back-those who'd been caught by the law and those running from it.

He asked aloud to the quiet room, "Which one are you, Mister?"

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

A deep throbbing had invaded his skull, a thrumming whose rhythm sapped all of his energy. He tried desperately to gain some order to his thoughts. A curious sensation on his wrist beat through the ache in his head and made itself known. He could feel it slowly tracking up his bare arm. The feeling was pleasant, almost feathery, against the only part of his body that didn't hurt. He cracked open leaden eyes and met two big brown ones, staring intently at him. The dog huffed hot breath in his face and laid its heavy muzzle down on his shoulder, tail beating wildly.

"Toby!" a man's voice, deep and resonant, yelled.

He flinched at the sound; it was much too loud and rattled through his head.

The same voice bellowed, "Joe, I told you to keep the dog out of the house."

There was a scurrying beside him, the bed bumped and jostled. Heavy boot heels and scraping sounds intermixed until the weight was finally taken off his shoulder. Footsteps, along with lighter tip taps, faded out of earshot but the clamor left behind in his head was agonizing. His vision was gray and fuzzy around the edges when he tried to open his eyes again. The man's voice called out for a third time, this time right above his head.

"Mister…?"

A single thought came to him as he slid back into darkness. Was he just dreaming or did that dog only have one ear?

It was quiet now and dark in the room when he awoke. He tentatively slid his dry tongue around cracked lips. The man was beside him, his voice low and soothing this time.

"Here, drink this."

The glass clinked against his teeth and he greedily gulped the fluid down, not bothering to open his eyes. Nausea suddenly spiked and he turned his head. To retch would start the god-awful pounding again. He pushed the glass away. Something worried him though; he had to ask the man about it.

"Dog…" It was all he could get out, his voice sounding thin and paltry.

He was patted on his good shoulder. "It's all right, he's gone."

"No…ear…" His thoughts were muddled. What was he going to say? The glass was placed at his lips but sleep assailed him.

He could feel brightness beating against his eyelids. Was it morning? Two people were noisily whispering to his right. They would have been arguing if their voices were any louder. One deepened his tone, then silence. A chair was pushed back and boots scuffed out of the room.

"Are you awake?"

He recognized that voice; it was the one that yelled out before and the same one that had been beside him with the water.

He opened his eyes a little, feeling sodden with weariness.

The man had a tanned face, framed by short brown hair. It wasn't an unfriendly face exactly, just…concerned.

"So, you finally decided to return after all. The name's Mathias, Eli Mathias and you're at my farm."

Uncertainty suddenly crowded in with the noise in his head and the too-bright light in his eyes, the heavy ache forcing his attention elsewhere.

The man spoke again, this time a bit louder. "My name is Mathias. And you're…?"

He stared dully at the man's face through slits; he was expected to return an answer. But there was one problem-he didn't know who he was.

#-#-#-#-#

Mathias had left him alone after getting a full glass of water down him, the look of disbelief never leaving his face. He couldn't say he blamed the farmer for his suspicion.

He tipped his head back into the pillow and closed his eyes briefly. It felt good just to be still. The pain in his head had mostly receded except for a spot that lingered over his left ear. His arm still burned under the bandage and he was sore just about every place else. He opened his eyes and took a good look around the room. It was tidy with a large dresser situated by the door. A set of books lay on top of it, guarded by a miniature toy horse, frozen in a rearing stance. A single window against the far wall was open, the curtains fluttering back and forth with the light breeze.

Still thirsty, he reached for the glass, his shaky hand bumping a metal-framed picture on the nightstand. It was of a blond-haired woman, holding a child on her lap. He traced his finger across the images held in the cool pane. The pretty lady had displayed a small, demure smile for the daguerreotyper, while the baby leaned into her with a smug look of pure contentment.

The picture gave him pause. There wasn't any mirror around save for the one across the room over the dresser, he had no knowledge of what he looked like. It was obvious he had some height to him; maybe he was even tall since his feet hung over the end of the bed. He clasped his hands together and raised them, hampered on the left by the tight wrap around his biceps. Corded muscles stood out in his forearms, he was no weakling. He turned his hands over; they were large, with calluses on the palms and fingertips. Hands used to work. Dried blood was caked under the nails of his left one, dirt embedded under the nails on his right. He ran a hand across his chest, and felt a round scar on his left shoulder; it was puzzling to find it there. His hand dipped lower over the flat plane of his stomach. Not much fat. He felt his face and aside from the grown out stubble, it was lean with high cheekbones. His hand wandered up to his head and felt around the bandage; thicker padding had been placed in the area above his left ear. It was itching so he dug a finger underneath the tight dressing.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Mathias was standing in the doorway, carrying a bowl and spoon.

"It was hard enough to stitch back together again, don't go ruining my handiwork."

He was smiling but it didn't quite reach his eyes, the wariness from before was still there. He walked to the bedside and placed the bowl down on the table.

"Let's get you up a little. Sorry for the bed, it's my son's."

He helped him to scoot up against the headboard then fitted a pillow to his back, the movements quick and efficient. "You've had…experience."

"Some." The man looked towards the picture on the table. "My wife was ill for a while." Mathias sat heavily in the chair and crossed his arms, looking steadily at him with probing gray eyes. "Can you remember anything yet?"

He settled back, looking towards the window, and sifted through pockets of his memory, finally finding a scrap he could latch onto. "Falling…I remember falling…somewhere..." He fingered the bandage around his head again, hoping it would somehow divulge the complete answer.

"It wasn't a fall that caused that," Mathias said. "You were creased. It's a deep wound, close to the bone. And it looks like another bullet went straight through your arm.

That information was surprising but the pain made it real.

"Maybe someone targeted you **."** Mathias proposed. He had shifted in his chair, leaning forward.

He sunk back further into the pillow behind his back. "Why do you say that?"

"You've got an old scar on the back of your head; it could be from an accident." He paused, not looking convinced. "Or maybe somebody hit you. Had it in for you."

He shook his head; it didn't mean anything to him.

Mathias gestured vaguely towards the bed. "Looks like you've had plenty of trouble along the way anyhow."

More scars? How many did he have? It was unspoken, but suspicion was clearly etched across the farmer's face again. A flit of panic seized him. Exactly who was he?

The farmer was saying something again and the bowl and spoon were suddenly thrust into his hands.

"Here, drink this broth; it'll help you feel a little better."

Mathias stood, looking like he wanted to ask a question or two, or a maybe a dozen, but he turned and walked to the door instead. He stopped in the doorframe and said over his shoulder, "We'll talk later." His tone was perfunctory, the words firm. It was a promise of things to come.

The broth stayed down despite quick flashes of nausea. He idly rubbed the well-healed scar on his left shoulder, thinking about Mathias' words. Shot, not once but twice! Someone had tried their best to make sure he was dead. But why?

He searched within himself but he simply couldn't find any answers for Mathias, or for himself, just…blankness.

He let his head fall back on the pillow and his eyes closed. He was tired, not so much from physical pain, though there was plenty of that, but from the sheer weariness of trying to remember something that wasn't there anymore.

The sweet smell of apples frying woke him, and sent his stomach rumbling in response. A splash of color sped by the door and caught his eye, but disappeared from view too quickly. He watched the doorway for a few more moments then saw it for a second time. It was a young boy, peeking in from around the door jam. He crooked a finger at him and the boy, accompanied by a yellow dog, made his way hesitantly into the room, coming to stand a few feet away from the bed. He had the same wide face as Mathias, and the same stare.

"And who are you?"

"My name's Joe, but Pa told me not to bother you."

"You're no bother. Your Pa is Mr. Mathias?" The dog came up and nudged his hand.

The boy nodded, looking pleased when it he sat with a deep sigh and lifted his paw on the bed.

He smiled, rubbing the dog's head. "Is he yours?"

Joe nodded a second time, adding, "He likes you."

"Why do I think he's not supposed to be in here? Was he here before?"

The boy's smile lost some of its luster. "Sorry about that, Mister. He got in before I could stop him."

"So, this is your room then. And your bed." He slowly struggled up to his elbow, fighting a spate of dizziness, and held out his hand. "Thanks for the loan of them both, Joe."

The boy came forward, his own hand outstretched and a grin creasing his freckles.

"Joe!"

Mathias was at the door. He quickly strode into the room and wrapped an arm around his son's shoulders, drawing him away from the bed. He leaned down to his son's side. "What did I tell you about coming in here? And about Toby?"

"But we were just talkin', Pa."

"That's enough. You've got chores to finish; you'd best go do them."

Joe pulled away from his father's hands, caught the dog's collar and trudged out, managing to glance back at him with doleful eyes before getting out the door.

"It's all right, sir, he wasn't bothering me. I was the one who asked him in."

The farmer looked sharply down at him and shook his head. "No…no, it's not all right." He turned and followed the boy out of the room.

He lay back; there was fear in Mathias' voice when he had called out to his son-he didn't trust him with the boy, that was plain enough to see. And for some reason, that lack of trust both irritated and saddened him all at the same time.

tbc


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

The trail dipped down past a small creek. Coy Pearson knelt and drank a little, and then because he couldn't find any signs, walked downstream following its jagged outline. He'd only gone a few feet when a call stopped him.

"Over here!"

Martinez had found something. It was about time. He clambered up the short incline and found the Mexican crouching beside a tree root. Rojelio was a cool, careful man with eyes like gimlets. He was a good man to have in front or beside you, but never behind. Especially on a day like today. Coy had understood sooner or later there would be trouble and it was here now, in spades. The stranger was unexpected; there'd been no planning for him, not like the others. Damn Rojelio, anyway. Losing that money in Woodville was just stupid. It was a long shot coming back here, looking for the dropped papers.

The morning sun was warm on his back as he knelt down on one knee next to Martinez. "Whattya got?"

A grunt and finger pointed downward was all the indication he'd been heard.

He stilled a sharp pierce of annoyance. "Blood. I knew I hit him." Martinez's head swung up sharply and he conceded, "All right, mebbe you got him. It was dark, so mebbe we both got hits in."

"He went through there." Martinez pointed again, this time to a rambling pathway between the two trees.

They walked through the opening and came to a sharp embankment.

Coy leaned over the edge. "Aw, hell. That's why we never found him. Must have tumbled down this hill, I can see where he fell." Moving carefully, they both stepped off the ridge and skidded their way down to the bottom.

Martinez sounded disgusted. "He was here at one time." He bent down to outline an impression in the dirt then stood to wipe off sullied hands on his pants, the silver buttons on the side catching the sun's rays, winking out light here and there.

"Yeah and now he's gone. Sam ain't gonna be too happy."

"This is your fault, Pearson. We should have hunted him down until we found him and made sure he was dead, not leave it to luck."

Coy scuffed the dirt with his boot. "We need to find those papers he was holding." Stupid bastard had hung on to them like some sort of talisman, even after Martinez had coldcocked him with the butt of his pistol. They'd gotten hold of them, along with his pocket money, only to lose the damn papers in the darkness.

"Besides, whose fool idea was it to jump him in the first place? And then losing what little money there was by drawing to an inside straight for God's sake! You'd of done better just spending it on those lousy whores in the Woodville saloon instead of that poker game."

Rojelio reached inside his coat pocket, his smile brilliant and smug. "You mean these papers?"

"Where'd you find' em?"

Martinez pointed to the top of the embankment.

He tried to take them but the packet was snatched away from his hand. "And when were you planning on telling me you had' em, _Roy_?"

Martinez yanked his knife out of its sheath. "Cuidado, hombre. You know not to call me that."

"Easy now, just calm down. The only thing is, I was sort of figuring on handling that part myself. After all, I'm the one who could read enough to know there might be money at the end of it. Lemme see' em again."

Rojelio reluctantly handed over the crumpled papers.

His brow furrowed and he looked at Martinez. "Damn it, anyway. It says here this fella was supposed to be in Ironton on the tenth to sell a contact. We're too late."

Rojelio shrugged. "We go anyway. There are many things in Ironton to keep our interest, if this doesn't work out."

"And how do you figure on passing for that man? You got the wrong color skin, Martinez."

The Mexican set to the task of cleaning his thumbnail with the thin blade. "Ah, I can't, but you can. And I keep the letters-safe with me-until we get there." Each word was punctuated by a quick flick of his knife.

"I'll tell you what, you meet up with Sam and I'll go on to Ironton. It'll save some time."

Martinez reached out to snag the letter from his hands. The knife blade sparked in the sunlight as its point was angled towards his chest.

"I think not, _amigo_. We both go to Ironton."

"And Sam?"

Another shrug. "Two ways to split the money are always better than three."

Coy thought it over. Martin was making noise like he wanted to quit and things had been going too well for that kind of talk. He was sure he could beat Sam, despite the latter's rep as being hell on wheels with a gun. And if they didn't want to go that route, there was always Rojelio's knife. A shiver passed through him, remembering the ease with which Martinez's blade had sliced across the clerk's neck in Modesto. Simple and quiet, it was a done deal almost before it got started.

"What about him?" he asked, pointing to the bloodied spot on the ground in front of them.

"Eh, probably crawled off to die. We look for a little while longer then we leave to meet up with Martin."

The vaquero's whims seemed to shift like sand. Martinez was after the money-they both were-and the urgency of trying to find the injured man was gone.

Two things made him uneasy. One of them was the man they had robbed. It was a mistake leaving him the other night. They would have to think he might still be alive, if the body didn't turn up soon. The second item was a nagging suspicion that with Sam soon to be out of the picture, he'd have to be extra careful with Martinez.

tbc


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Joe's porridge, steaming hot on the stovetop, hiccupped in the pot. Eli spooned through the grey mess, making slow circles, all the while contemplating the closed door to his son's bedroom. His thoughts wandered past the door and stopped at the injured young man who'd been lying in his son's bed for the last two days. Now there was a puzzle. Polite. Confused. Worried. Any of those would fit him. What didn't add up were those marks on his back and the bullet wounds in his body. He'd heard the mutterings during the first night, mostly from pain, but others coming from a different place all together. A few names maybe, he couldn't make them out at the time. Nothing to say where this man had come from, or where he was going to. Or what he was doing in between those times.

His Anna had told him often enough that he was a born skeptic. The woman had been right, like she always was. And he held true to the same course here, feeling more than a bit justified with Joe in the house.

No, he wasn't ready to believe, yet he couldn't shed that itch, the feeling something was wrong about his conclusion. He'd been wary at first, then pinched with disbelief when the man said he couldn't remember who he was. The empty pockets, the injuries…had he been too hasty in his condemnation? He'd been fooled too many times before, but with the sound of Anna's voice echoing in his ears-a soft plea to give the man a chance to prove himself-maybe he'd wait a little while longer before passing judgment.

He heard the soft creaking of the bed and a chair scraping across the floor from beyond the closed door. He pushed the pot off the flame and went to gather some clothes.

#-#-#-#-#

The stranger was standing before the dresser, a blanket wrapped around him and clamped together with one hand, his legs braced against the drawers. He was staring into the mirror, the other hand rubbing at the sparse beard on his cheek. With his chin jutted out so, it reminded him of Joe concentrating hard on his figures from school. He scuffed a boot on the floor and cleared his throat, the noise bouncing off the four walls of the room. The man whirled, panic flashing across his face. Eli caught him by the elbow-just-when he lost the battle to stay upright and swayed dangerously away from the dresser.

"You don't look so good. Let's get you back to bed." He wilted against him, barely making it there to sit down.

"I guess you didn't hear me come in," Eli said, narrowing his eyes. There had been something in the stranger's eyes when he'd turned around-a mixture of shock and guilt, besides the out and out fear. The odd look was only there for a moment but it had been clear, emphasized almost comically by the once-tight bandage around his head, now askew and drooping to one side. The man yanked the blanket up around his bare shoulder then dropped his eyes to briefly study the quilted red squares.

"You've seen them," he said, a trace of accusation in his statement, "you've seen my back."

"Yeah, I have. Kind of hard not to when you're bleeding all over my son's bed and I'm trying to stitch you up."

He slumped, pulling the blanket up higher, and turned his head away. "Sorry…"

"I suppose it would be something, seeing them for the first time since you can't remember. But I bet getting them in the first place was the real kicker." Eli added, softer this time, "They're whip marks, done a while ago from the looks of them."

The bowed head swung up to look at him.

"Look, I know those types of marks. And yours have been made by a whip, at one time or another. I've seen enough prisoners to know." He lightly dropped the bundle of clothes down on the bed beside him.

The fear was back but not the guilt, his eyes shifting a myriad of colors to settle on a slate grey.

"I saw your face when you turned around. You remembered something."

The look of quick denial was there, but tempered by a considering pause and a trembling hand that waved vaguely. "Just images, faint images. I couldn't tell what…or who they were."

Eli looked at the haunted man before him. "It's a start, I guess. I brought those clothes in, figuring you might be getting tired of that bed. I'll bring in some water and you can get cleaned up a little."

He turned to leave but was held in place by a muted voice.

"You said you've seen enough prisoners to know…is that what you think I am?"

He knew men like this one sleeping in Joe's bed. He'd piloted enough of them at the Crossing up and down the river. Drifters on the wrong side of the law or worse yet, out and out criminals the world would be better off without. Even the Army didn't know what to do with the hordes of them crossing over to California in the sixties, and all of them after one thing-gold.

Eli shrugged. "You could have been shy of the law, at one time or another, but those stripes aren't new, Mister. Whenever or wherever you got them, it's been a while. I used to ferry prisoners at Yuma Crossing. Got used to seeing all sorts of things down there."

The man fell silent. Eli motioned to the items beside him. "There's the clothes, a shirt of mine and your pants, if you feel like it. I'll get that water."

He left him sitting on the bed, hands curled into tight fists on his lap.

Eli was standing at the stove when the door to his son's room opened. He stared at the figure listing to the right-about as steady as a three day drunk. The man's eyes, bearing dark shadows, squinted against the bright light from the kitchen. The uncertainty in them was what captured Eli's attention the most; it was almost palpable in their depths.

The white-print shirt was too short in the unbuttoned cuffs and too wide across the chest, but at least it was clean. The rip across the knee had mended real well, after Joe had informed him that a different color of thread was needed to make it blend in. His eyes traveled down the stranger's feet-they were bare. He could well imagine the foolishness in trying to bend over to put boots on. Another thought, this one more matter-of-fact, occurred to him as he looked at those bare feet-it would be a while before the man was able to travel.

He'd taken the bandage off. A line of black stitches emerged out of the mottled yellow bruising and showed starkly past his hair line. Clean-shaven, he was younger than what he first thought. It was a refined-looking face, one that you'd look twice at when walking down the street, thinking you might know him. Unfortunately, it was also the same color as the porridge cooking on the stove. He pointed out the obvious, "You'd better sit down before you fall down, Mister."

The man dropped rather gracelessly into the hard chair at the table and propped his head up on his hand. Eli placed a hot cup of black coffee in front of him and received a grateful nod in return. He fashioned his own cup with sugar and sat down opposite of him.

After a few good sips, the man spoke. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why did you take me in and let me stay here, knowing…thinking what you do?"

Eli had been asking himself that same question. But when the words were laid out in the open, he realized he had pinned a fair amount of hope on the fact this man would prove him wrong.

"My wife." he said simply.

The stranger's eyebrows furrowed. "I assumed she…died, from the way you talked about her earlier."

Eli nodded. "She did, over a year ago now. We'd moved away from the Crossing after a particularly rough summer. Too many people to think, Anna had said. So we did what everyone else was doing at the time and crossed over to California, going north. We knew this was the right place when we got here, and then Joe came along. We had a lot of good years together, until…that time."

But those awful, lean years when they first got married had been a tough lesson. Seeing the depravity on both sides of the law in the Crossing had left him with a less than positive view of life in general, and of strangers in particular.

"What I'm trying to say is, she allowed me-sometimes forced me-to see the good in people. It was ugly in the Crossing, but she made it worth living. So if you're thanking anybody, thank her." The words were bitten off and harsh, he couldn't help it-he missed her with a hard ache.

Silence wrapped around the kitchen like a thick blanket, the only sound was the hiss of Joe's overcooked oatmeal. He got up to cover the pot. The battered piece of paper, the one that had been clutched in the man's hand that very first day, lay hiding behind the flour jar on the counter. He thought for a moment then reached behind the container. Looking at it once more, he pushed it towards the stranger across the dining table.

"Can you read?" he asked.

The man nodded hesitantly and took the paper. "It says 'Daniel Sorensen'. Who is he?"

"I was hoping it was you."

He peered closer at the envelope, running a finger across the heavy, firm scrawl. His eyebrows came up and a shoulder shrugged, the envelope, the words-they obviously meant nothing to him.

"I was thinking it might spark something. You were holding it when I found you in that ditch."

The paper was taken up again, the edges rolled between his fingers as if testing its reality. "Daniel Sorensen." The name was said aloud to the quiet kitchen, his deep voice echoing off the walls. He shook his head and laid it gently back on the table.

"It's a good strong name, Mister, a familiar one, too. And much better than being called, well," Eli cocked a smile, "Mister, all the time."

That got him a long look from the young man across the table.

"I suppose it is. Are you suggesting that I use it?"

It was Eli's turn to shrug. "It looks to me like it's the only one you have right now." He sat back in his chair and watched the name settle in with the man. There was wariness there, stubbornness, too, if he wasn't mistaken. And finally, acceptance.

"It'll do." he said.

The newly-christened Daniel gingerly felt around the wound to his head. "I still want to thank you, Mr. Mathias, for helping me."

There was that politeness again. "Call me Eli; I've had enough of the word "Mister" for the last few days."

The man rubbed his finger along a chip in the rim of his coffee cup, then raised it halfway. "Here's to Eli and…Daniel. Both good names."

He raised his own mug to meet the one across the table with a loud clink. That cup he'd given the man was old; Anna would have thrown it out by now or used it to plant something in to place by the kitchen window. He didn't know why he kept it around.

The stranger was back to worrying the chip again, on him it was starting to look like a habit. The movement finally slowed then stopped completely.

"You don't trust me." It was a quiet statement, almost as if it wasn't supposed to be aired aloud. But there it was, hanging in the air between them, accompanied by a steady look from exhausted eyes.

"No, I don't." he said bluntly. "Why should I? I don't know you. Hell, you don't even know yourself."

Anger flashed, the man turned his head to the side then brought it back again, looking directly at him. "I would never," his words were punctuated by his middle finger stabbing the table, "I would never harm your son. I may not know who I am but I can tell you that much."

The sight of Joe standing at the bedside with Toby flitted though his mind, icy tendrils of fear threading their way through his stomach. But the statement and its intensity caught Eli by surprise. And if he wasn't mistaken, it caught the man by surprise, too. He considered his answer thoughtfully, waiting until their eyes met again. "Maybe I should trust you."

The stranger angled his head, suddenly guarded. "Why?" he asked.

At the puzzled look, Eli continued. "The way I see it, you're searching for something or someone. I don't need you, but you _do_ need me. You're lost."

They stared at each other, until the man broke it off with a faint smile. He hooked his thumb through the handle and eased his palm around the cup.

"You're right, Eli, I do need you. It's time to put the pieces back together." He hesitated and the tiny smile disappeared completely. "However they may fit."

tbc


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The ache behind his eyes had grown in intensity since his outburst to Eli; throbbing with each breath he took. He closed them for a moment, wrapping his hand tighter against the steadying warmth of the coffee cup. A sudden voice near his elbow and a hand on his shoulder startled him, tipping the cup over.

"Easy, Mister…uh, Daniel. You were about to fall off the chair. Why don't you go back to bed, I'll bring breakfast in soon."

He acquiesced, knowing that if he fell on the floor, he'd be hard pressed to get back up again. Putting the pieces together would have to wait for a bit. The mangled envelope lay on the table; it held an answer of some kind, maybe *the* answer. He stuffed it into his pocket.

With Eli's help he managed to get to Joe's bed again, flopping into the center of it. Pulling the quilt over him, clothes and all, he shut his eyes. He needed to rest, his body clamored for it, but his mind was racing. After several fruitless moments, he gave up the pretense of sleeping and stared at the ceiling. Twenty odd planks, the maple firmly chinked with mortar. A good solid construction…

Those marks on his back…

He not only didn't know who he was, but now a second, maybe more important, question had been added: What was he?

He tore his eyes away from the ceiling and studied his hands. What had he done with them in the past to deserve such punishment? Pictures he wanted-needed-to find, danced tantalizingly out of reach. Grasping for something that had no substance. He curled his fist tightly…what had he done?

Sweat dotted his forehead, the blow to his head and the loss of blood from the bullet wound had made him decidedly weak. He eased his clenched hand open, the tenseness gradually fading, and he slept.

He awoke abruptly, finding himself half off the bed, the blanket tangled around his legs. The last vestiges of a nightmare flitted through his mind, leaving him unsettled. The room was darkened and quiet; it appeared he had slept the entire day. He groggily sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He felt…better. His head was clear, no more pounding. Low voices coming from the other room garnered his attention.

He opened the door to find Eli and Joe sitting at the table together. The book Joe and his father held between them was laid down when two pairs of grey eyes looked up at him.

"It's about time. I went to check on you, but you were dead to the world. Maybe you needed it, though." Eli eyed him critically. "You look a sight better than this morning."

"I'm all right, maybe a little hungry." As if in full agreement, his stomach rumbled loudly.

"We'll need to fix that. We have stew left over, still on the stove. Come and sit down."

He sat across the table from Joe and motioned to the book.

Joe's contempt was obvious. "It just a figuring book, that's all. School'll be starting again and Pa says I have to be ready." He brought up another book, this one hidden from view on the seat of the chair next to him. "And if that ain't bad enough, I gotta go through this one, too."

"It's not ain't, Joe. The proper word you need to use is 'isn't'." said Eli.

"But, Pa, Mr. Walker uses that word all the time."

At Eli's look of exasperation, he managed a small grin in the boy's direction and took the bowl of stew being offered.

"After I'm done, I can help you with your studies, if you'd like." Both Eli and Joe looked at him quickly. Eli's was thoughtful while Joe held the look of pure hope. "At least I'm fairly certain I can," he amended.

After his bowl was cleared away, and with an expectant look from Joe sitting beside him, he took the book in hand.

He scanned the page quickly. "Here's the problem," giving what he hoped was an encouraging look, "you didn't carry the five." The boy's face blossomed with understanding, and they did the next set of questions together under the watchful eye of his father. He presently fingered the rough binding of the other book.

"Charles Dickens. I've read this before, when it was first published." And he had. He knew it for a fact.

Eli's look towards him was thoughtful again. "I knew you had to have some type schooling along the way. You don't talk like you were raised around here. Now with the figures and the book, you know it for sure. I guess a piece of the puzzle might have just fallen into place."

He wanted the pieces to fall into place a lot faster than this. Several days of rest and thinking over his problem had left him no closer to a solution than before. He knew that and he was sure Eli did, too.

His reverie was interrupted by Joe. "Mister? Pa says we can call you Daniel from now on, right?"

He nodded absently. Daniel…the name still wasn't right. He thought about the envelope balled up in his pocket.

Ironton! A shaft of light pierced the blackness surrounding his brain. He knew that name was connected with Ironton-in some way. But how? And why? He saw a date with clarity, October 10th-why was it so important?

He must have spoken aloud, Eli was addressing him.

"No, today's the thirteenth. I found you on the ninth."

"Ironton, I needed to get to Ironton…by the tenth."

"Ironton's another day's ride northwest of here. Are you from there?"

He shook his head in frustration. "I don't know, whatever was there," he waved his hand in the air, "is gone now."

Joe's eyes were owlishly large, his stubby pencil held taut. He reached over to pat his hand but the boy cringed away from him.

He looked to Eli then back to Joe. "I'm sorry." he said, and rose from the table.

He started towards the bedroom, but changed his mind and went to the front door instead, stepping out onto the porch. The wooden slats felt cool and solid against his bare feet. The evening breeze carried a hint of crispness and felt good against his warm face.

The ache in his head was making a comeback of sorts, a dull thudding every now and then.

He was on edge and he knew exactly what was bothering him-he was afraid. Not of any man or of any thing, but of himself. Of discovering just who and what he was. If he knew he could walk off the porch and make it past Mathias' barn to leave it all behind, he would.

He turned to drop into a chair; the pain bringing a small measure of dizziness upon its return. The snick of nails against wood was heard down the length of the veranda. Toby was getting up from where he was laying under the window. He hadn't seen the animal in the darkness, but evidently the dog had seen him.

Toby ambled over and bumped his arm companionably. Stroking the dog's fuzzy muzzle earned him a quick lick on the hand and a swish of tail. "So, you're the one who found me? Well, I'm grateful for it." He looked back up at the stars just peeking out beyond the roof edge. "Now, if you could just find my memory, I'd be all set."

The porch was suddenly flooded with light from the interior when Eli stepped out, holding two cups of coffee. He hooked the second chair with his leg and pulled it over, while offering up a mug.

He took a long sip, the strong brew burning hot all the way down to his stomach. "I didn't mean to scare your son like that."

He could see him shake his head a bit and shrug. "Nothing for it, really. You just caught him by surprise is all, nearly bleeding to death in his bed that first night. He's worried-about you."

"About me?" Toby leaned heavily against his leg and slowly slid down to lie across his feet.

Eli nodded. "He's been that way ever since his mother died. If I'm late getting back from the traps or the fields, he comes out to make sure I'm all right. I think it'll wear off, with time. Joe's doing his best to get all grown up, but he took her death hard. So now that you're here…"

"Joe's concerned because I was injured and now I can't remember."

Eli sat back in his chair. "Yeah."

"You have a good son, Eli."

They sat in silence for a while, then the farmer spoke up again. "Well, you can't be all bad, Mister." He motioned with his cup towards the dog. "He doesn't take to just anyone."

He palmed his coffee cup and nudged the dog off his feet, fervently hoping Toby was right this time.

#-#-#-#-#

He took it as a mark of recovery he could get his boots back on without feeling like he might pass out. The morning was cool; he smelled the fresh odor of hay and manure as he walked to the small corral. Hitching a foot up on the bottom railing, he leaned heavily on the top. A well-appointed bay roan horse stood at the far end of it, eyeing him with interest. A second horse, this one a smaller black and white pinto, stood at the water trough, bending its neck to drink. He inhaled deeply; there was a pleasant smell of dampness from the morning dew. His memory might be gone but this was something he felt comfortable with, there was a pattern to it for some reason.

He left the corral and walked into the open barn. Eli was there, bending over the hind foot of a third horse, working a hoofpick.

"Trouble?" he asked.

"No, just the usual. But old Sally here tends towards a shelly hoof, it cracks a lot." Eli looked up from his work and saw he was wearing boots. "I see your hooves have made an improvement over the last day or so."

"The world is staying upright now when I put my boots on. That's always a good thing."

Eli grinned. "Yes, it is."

He hesitated. "I need to move out of your son's room."

"I'm sure Joe would like his own bed back again. And I know I would, that boy can kick like a mule and he's not too particular about who he kicks. But why now?"

He shrugged. "I've imposed long enough."

Eli dropped Sally's hoof and looked pointedly at him. "Does the fact you've been having nightmares almost every night play into this in any way?"

He could feel warmth nip at his collar. The dreams had invaded his sleep a few days ago, waking him in a sweaty panic, head pounding. Distorted, confusing images of men dying all around him-he could hear the loud noises even now. It's all he could remember of the nightmares, except for the feeling of utter despair which accompanied them.

"Where would you go anyway?" Eli asked. .

He was uncomfortable with the question, the truth was, he didn't know where.

The farmer inspected the pick and brought out a handkerchief to wipe it off. "If you wanted to use it, there's a fold-out cot in the bin at the back of the barn. You could camp out here for a while. The harvesting is almost done, but I can still use some help until we can get all of the corn in. Besides you haven't been on a horse since I found you. I'd be willing to bet that it wouldn't feel too good to ride for any length of time-especially to Ironton."

The words were spoken off-handedly, with a slight shrug. Mathias was giving him a chance-and some more time to figure out things.

The hoofpick was flipped to a waiting barrel top as Eli continued to talk. "I know you have to go. It's the one place that might hold some answers for you. I'm just saying Ironton will always be there, whether today, or a few days from now."

He thought on the words for a few moments. As much as he wanted to find out things, he was loathe to be leaving the only place he knew. Ironton could wait, at least for a little while longer.

"The choice is yours." Eli prodded.

He found himself nodding.

"Good." Eli motioned behind him with a thumb jerked over his shoulder. "The cot will need a little cleaning."

He opened the top of the bin, scraping away cobwebs, sending dust motes flying. A burlap-covered saddle, some wire and other tools all crowded around the cot which lay folded at the bottom. He reached for it, inadvertently hooking the burlap with his fingers, and pulling it off.

Words floated back to him from the front of the barn. "There's an old saddle in there, got it in a trade. It's a…"

"A McClellan." He eagerly pulled it out and pushed off the rest of the burlap.

Eli came to stand next to him. "You know it?"

He nodded. "It's a McClellan saddle." He ran his hand lightly over it, fingertips seeking out the grainy leather on the high pommel, cracked from disuse, then dipping down to the smooth split seat.

"I've used one before; it was a long time ago…" His voice sounded loud in the quiet barn-and certain, even to his ears.

Eli looked at him in surprise. "You sure you haven't just seen one somewhere else?"

He bristled. "You don't believe me?"

"No, it's not that especially, but... Hey, wait a minute."

Eli walked to a cupboard and pulled out a dusty holster. He picked out the gun and tossed it to him. "Do you know what this is?"

He deftly caught the weapon and spun the barrel to check for bullets. A smile came to his face. "It's a Remington forty-four. But the Colt Army issue had a more reliable firing action." As an after thought, he added, "It's what I preferred in a pistol."

"Well, you've used a gun before." Eli said dryly. "Maybe you did have some service time. Cavalry, if you sat in a McClellan. The soldiers were plentiful around the Crossing." He scratched the back of his head. "It does sort of seem to fit with the way you talk, your schooling and all."

He hefted the weight of the gun in his hand and looked closely at it. "It needs cleaning." he murmured. He was an experienced soldier-at one time, anyway. Nothing else came; the vague thoughts were fleeting, leaving more questions than answers.

tbc


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Murdoch brushed off the remnants of the day from his jacket and stepped inside the door. He sighed a little, the twinge in his back singing to him in protest of the long work hours. The work never seemed to stop on a ranch this size, but he knew what he was getting into when he bought the place. Still, it didn't help to be short-handed. He stopped to hang up his hat on the rack and couldn't miss the fact that Scott's hat was still missing from its peg. He stared at the empty space while taking off his coat. He took his son for granted most days, he mused, both sons actually.

But where Johnny was vibrant-a colorful, energetic presence in the room that was hard to deny-Scott was quiet. Yet just as vivid in his own way. Too easy to miss what he had accomplished in the hubbub of the day or week. And he wouldn't want the attention anyway; he had learned that at least from his son.

Three days overdue. It was a long time to be gone without sending word, especially from his usually attentive eldest. He'd talked himself out of riding into town to send a telegram the day before, thinking it would embarrass them both if he came home to find his son sitting at the dinner table. The only thing was, Scott hadn't made it home.

He made his way to the study and sat down at the desk, easing his sore back into the chair. It was late afternoon, the still part of the day for the ranch. It would be an hour or more before the men returned from work, and the noise of the evening would commence. It was too quiet now. He pulled the receipt ledger from the drawer and tried to make headway into the rows of neat figures listed there. It was Scott's handwriting this month. His sons had decided to take turns at the books, neither one much caring for the work. Although Johnny was coming along quite nicely, Scott had more experience at keeping them, and it was an added bonus being able to decipher his handwriting without too much effort.

He had every intention of going through the book this morning, but his mind had been waylaid-on broken axles, foaling mares, but mostly on his errant son. He looked up when Johnny entered the room, heralded by the sound of jingling spurs.

His younger son sprawled into the chair, hoisted a leg over its arm, and started to swing it.

"Maria said dinner's going to be a little late."

He nodded, the pencil methodically tapping his desk. For every beat on the mahogany top, there was an alternate swish of leather against fabric.

"Must you do that?" asked Murdoch.

"What?"

"Swing your leg like that."

"Oh." He unhooked his leg from the chair's arm and dropped it down beside the other, bouncing the knee up and down. "Sort of like your pencil then."

Murdoch sighed and shut the ledger, letting the pencil drop on the desk. "It's not like I was getting anywhere with it." He got up from the chair and peeled back the curtain, looking outside.

"So Scott hasn't made it back yet?" ventured Johnny.

"No, he hasn't." He turned to look at him. "But I expect you already know that."

Johnny leaned forward in his chair, his leg finally quieted. "Murdoch, the way I see it, he can't be in too much trouble."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, didn't you say that Sorensen had a daughter?"

He nodded.

A slow grin made its way across Johnny's face and a shock of black hair fell across his forehead when he lowered his head. "I expect Scott would have sent us a telegram if he had to get married," he shrugged, "and since we haven't got one yet..."

His lips twitched before he turned back to the window.

"I'll ride into town with you tomorrow." Johnny offered.

Murdoch turned around again; his son was gazing steadily at him with those candid blue eyes. "And who said I'm going to town?"

"No one. But I thought I'd ride along with you anyway."

#-#-#-#-#

"No, there hasn't been any telegram for you Mr. Lancer. Either today or yesterday." Harvey peered down through half-glasses and leafed through the stack of papers in front of them, his black visor bobbing along with the rate of his shuffle.

"Yesterday?"

The clerk nodded towards his son. "Yes sir, there wasn't anything here yesterday when Johnny checked. You expecting something important?"

Murdoch looked at Johnny then turned back to the clerk. "I was looking for a telegram from Scott. It would be coming from either Ironton or Woodville."

"Oh, well that explains it then. Johnny, you didn't tell me it was supposed to be coming from one of them two places." He patted down his desktop, then finally found the pencil he was looking for behind his ear. Capturing a worn sheet of paper under his hand, he checked off each item on the page. "Here it is. Says right here that the wires are out at Ironton and have been for day or so. Expect' em back up anytime. They must have had some weather up that ways. "

"What about Woodville?"

"Woodville would be a problem, weather or no…they don't have the wires strung out that far yet."

He blew out an exasperated breath. "Harvey, I need you to send this telegram out at soon as you can to the Sorensen Ranch at Ironton."

"Oh, right away, Mr. Lan…" He was interrupted by staccato beats from the telegraph machine. After several moments, the clerk raised his head and smiled. "Looks like those lines at Ironton have opened up again. I'll send this out right now. May take a few hours or so to get a reply back, though."

"We'll be in town for a while, then stop back in to check before we leave. And you're right, Harvey, it is important."

The clerk drew himself up and beamed. "Yes sir, Mr. Lancer. When it comes back through, I'll find you."

The two men made their way out of the telegraph office to stand before the hitching rail. Murdoch unwrapped the reins from the post and looked at his son. "You were here yesterday?"

Johnny inclined his head. "I had to check on the winter wheat prices anyway, Murdoch, thought I'd check on a few more things while I was here." His voice dropped. "It's not like Scott to be late, at least not this late."

He slapped the bunched reins hard against his free hand; looking across the street at nothing in particular. "I know Johnny, I know." He tipped his chin towards the granary. "At least we can get some work done while we wait."

They both stepped off the boardwalk and led their horses down the street.

The granary was hectic; at least the counter register was anyway, with two people ahead of him. He nodded to the owner over a sack of wheat.

"You're busy today, Jake."

"You weighin' out, Murdoch, or just payin'?" Jake asked with a grin.

He looked at Johnny and raised his eyebrows. "I believe we're paying today, but we can come back."

The owner hustled around the counter. "Got the bill right here, Murdoch. No need to leave, it's all made up. I'll let you look this over; you tell me when you're ready."

"You don't miss a trick, do you Jake?"

"Now would I be in business if I did?"

Murdoch scrutinized the bill and scowled, then handed it to Johnny. He waited until the other two customers had left. "This is highway robbery and you know it. Since when did prices get so high?"

Jake crossed his arms, warming to the subject. "I would guess right about the time it stopped raining, Murdoch. Then there was the fire that took out most of the north range last year, and don't forget…"

"All right, all right, but I want a receipt." Murdoch said, finger tapping on the counter.

The door jangled open again and Harvey stepped across the threshold, waving a piece of paper. "It's here Mr. Lancer! Your telegram from Ironton!"

Murdoch read the telegram and brushed past the telegraph clerk, walking outside.

Johnny followed close behind. "What's it say?"

He handed it to his son. "Sorensen wants to know if we're still interested in selling the stock…Scott never showed up at his ranch to offer the contract."

Johnny quickly glanced at the words on the paper then thrust it back to him. Murdoch could see his own worry reflected in the eyes of his son.

"I'll pick up some supplies and leave from here. It'll save a couple of miles."

"Johnny." The word was emphasized with a firm hand to his son's arm, deflecting some of the hectic energy coming from him.

"We'll both go. We can send word to Teresa and Cipriano, if Scott does show before we make it there, they can contact us."

He could see it in Johnny's eyes, the mark of protest. This son's thoughts weren't so closed with him. His emotions ran high on his face, for the most part, unless he wanted them hidden. But right now, his passion was telling. He wanted to go-now-and go alone. Whether Johnny wanted to protect him from what he might find or just felt the need to travel faster, didn't matter. He wasn't about to send another son off without him. It just wouldn't do…especially if Scott was in trouble.

"We'd better get moving. I'll leave a message with Harvey; he can ride it out to the ranch. Get the supplies and meet me back here." His clipped words brooked no argument.

It felt good to be moving, to finally be going in a firm direction. He tensed as he reached for the door knob, unable to completely shake off the parental concern that had been clinging to him like a burr. Scott was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, he reasoned. But it had been far too many days ago that he had left home, never even making it to Sorensen's. Panic started to nibble at him.

#-#-#-#-#

There were still a few minutes of daylight left, so he and Johnny pushed on. This part of the trail grew increasingly rugged with scrub pines and broken lava rocks. A mountainous range lay off to their left while Woodville and Ironton lay straight ahead, many miles to the north. He spared a few moments to look around; if Scott was around here-injured in some way-they'd never know it.

Johnny pulled up under a tall poplar tree and turned in the saddle.

"This looks as good a place as any, Murdoch. We need to stop and rest the horses for a bit."

And his old man, Murdoch thought grimly. For a body used to long hours in the saddle, he was stiff. And Johnny was being kind.

Sundown was edging out the clouds, deep shadows lengthening across the landscape.

"We might as well make camp here tonight. We won't be able to get much further anyhow." he said.

His son nodded, a bit too quickly it seemed to him, and dismounted.

A small fire was soon popping and hissing in the twilight, sending out a thin trail of smoke. Murdoch sat with his back against the tree and watched his son work around the fire with ease. The coffee was hot and black just as he liked it. He looked over the rim of his cup at Johnny, who had finally settled on a flat rock with his own cup.

"I'm holding you up." He didn't mean it as a question.

Johnny darted a look to him, the fire reflecting eerily in their blueness. A slight shrug was his only movement. "I haven't said anything."

He sighed. "You don't have to."

"Yeah, I suppose I could go on alone and be further up the road," Johnny said, looking steadily into his coffee, "but maybe that ain't the most important thing right now."

It was another kindness, this acquiescence.

"He's gotta be between here and Ironton somewhere, Murdoch. We'll find him."

He stole another glance at his son. Despite the fire, his bowed head looked blue-black in the darkness. It was now, in the solitude of the evening, that he so closely resembled his brother. The obvious physical differences aside, they both shared equally in intelligence, a rare humor and a quiet trust in one another.

Johnny's words were reflective of that trust. He would find Scott, whatever the cost. Those words, however, held more conviction than what he could muster himself. An ominous feeling plagued him, why did he think they were too late already?

tbc


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

He awoke in the back room of the barn in the cool hours before dawn and lay on his back staring at the rafters. The decision was made clear in his mind. He would ask Eli to take him back to the place where Toby had found him. Then, if nothing came to him, he would venture on to Ironton. Once there, he would take things as they came.

He was restless to get going. The solution seemed simple enough-he had to find his identity. After that, it should all fall into place. Or so he hoped.

He swung his feet to the floor, dressing quickly, and winced as he tugged on his boots, the stitches in his head pulling the skin taut. They would be coming out soon enough. The bruising on the side of his face had died down to a maudlin yellow and his arm was healing well, thanks to Eli's careful ministrations. As he looked over the new marks added to his body, he wasn't fooled. Someone had left him for dead in that ditch, and it was quite possible that someone was still around. All in all, he needed to get to Ironton, regardless if danger was there or not, the lure of trying to find Daniel Sorensen was too strong.

Sighing, he pulled on his borrowed shirt.

#-#-#-#-#

Old Sally looked around at him with mild interest as he finished pulling up the cinch. As if she couldn't quite believe the saddle he was putting on her back. He couldn't either. The McClellan was old, but serviceable, sort of like Sally herself. He mounted with the ease of one accustomed to such a thing and pulled up the reins. Eli watched him quietly, never missing a beat. They were going to the place where Toby had found him.

Mathias threw him a jacket. "Here take this; it's turning colder now that fall is here. It's one of mine that Anna used to wear collecting eggs and in the garden. Always hung on her like a sack. It's seen better days, but I expect it'll keep you warm enough."

He unfolded the barn coat and took a deep sniff. It smelled pleasantly of something familiar.

The farmer looked sheepish. "Must be the lemon verbena, it was her favorite perfume. She wore it and the jacket all the time."

He held the coat aloft. "Are you sure you want me wearing it?"

Eli turned away, unwrapping reins from around the fence post, his voice curt. "It's not doing anybody any good just hanging on a nail. I've kept it all this time, it should be used."

He touched a leather-trimmed cuff. Eli missed his wife terribly. A thought occurred to him: did he have a wife? Or children? If he had a mother or father, he had no memory of them. Was anybody waiting for him to return?

His horse nickered softly, bringing his attention back to the present.

Eli had mounted and brought his own horse alongside Sally. "I think it'll work better if you actually put it on," he said, smiling.

He was caught in what was looking to be bad habit of thinking too much. He put the coat on and followed Eli out of the corral.

They made their way into a valley, burnished bright by yellow, red and golden leaves, broken up amongst tall pine trees. The chestnut he was riding was a walker and despite her age, she stepped out smartly.

There was a jay squawking somewhere nearby, the sharp noise piercing the otherwise quiet afternoon. They stood at the bottom of the embankment, looking upwards. The falloff from the top of the hill was steeper than he imagined. A man could ride his horse down the sharp grade but it would be sliding half the time on its rump. He was lucky not to have broken his neck. Eli pointed out the area where Toby had found him. It was nondescript and he felt a surge of disappointment. There was nothing he could tag a memory on to, except for the sensation of falling-and the monstrous flash of pain in his head. He turned back to Mathias, who had bent down to study the ground.

"Is there an easy way up to the top?" he asked.

"Yeah, we'll need to go around the base, but come here for a minute."

He walked over to the man and bent down.

"There're some tracks here, footprints, and I know they're not mine. Two different sets of boots, kind of meandering around." He looked up at him. "Could be they were looking for you."

He rocked back on his heels and tried to think. Who was he? A fugitive from the law? Or were those men tracking him lawless men, wanting to kill him for something he knew or had?

"Where's the nearest town? Maybe the sheriff…"

Eli shook his head. "The closest town is Woodville and that's almost a half days ride from here. We don't have a sheriff yet, just a few old boys who call themselves a city council. A territorial marshal comes around every so often to make sure things are in order."

They both stood up.

"Maybe we can find something up top," Eli said.

They walked their mounts along the thin trail, skirting the edge of the sandy wash, backtracking from its point. It was a clearing, small in size but perfect for an overnight stay with shelter from the trees and nearby water. He knew this place. For the first time since Eli had found him, things were dovetailing in his mind. He dismounted and walked to the exact area where he knew a fire had been placed. And there was the blackened ring on the ground in front of his feet.

Running, he'd been running away from here, each breath a heavy gasp. A sharp sound, then a bullet ripping through his arm. He reached up to rub his bandaged arm and looked down the length of forest. He knew which path had been taken.

Eli had dismounted and was watching him attentively. "You remember," he said.

"Bits, here and there. I was running through the woods, between those trees."

"Well that explains how you got to be at the bottom of that slope. Probably didn't see it in the dark and ran right off it."

He shook his head, and reached up to touch the stitches. "No…I fell off. I was shot and fell off the edge."

"Do you remember who did it?"

He didn't answer; instead he turned away and walked back to a small copse of trees. The sun was sending shafts of light down through the leaves, stippling the ground; he stepped through them and looked upwards to the brilliance. Something shiny, like sunlight. Bright lights. He looked towards the ashes. Or maybe it had been reflected from the fire.

"There were two men, one had something on his pants," he motioned to his sides, "shiny, up and down the length. I remember seeing them in the fire light."

"Conchos?"

He shrugged. It was all he had.

"If they were silver conchos, they'd most likely be calzoneras. That'd peg the man as Mexican or Spanish, maybe. Anything else coming to you?"

"No, just the pathway through the woods and seeing something reflected in the fire from one of the men. Nothing else."

"Well, give it time. It might come yet. Let's look around a bit more then head back. Joe's due back from the Walker's soon enough and I'd like to be there when he arrives."

He nodded absently. There were answers here but he simply couldn't find them.

#-#-#-#-#

He flinched when Eli approached him with the scissors. They were out on the porch, enjoying the evening. Joe was sitting on the edge of the stoop, leaning on Toby, concentrating hard on Dickens while his father was making threatening gestures with the sharp implements in his hands.

"You know, I didn't have this much trouble when I first put them in."

He looked up and swatted the hands away. "There could have been a reason for that, Eli."

Toby woofed once and joined in the fray, complicating matters by dancing around Eli's legs. Joe's high pitched laughter sounded across the porch.

"Come on, it'll just take a minute to get those stitches out."

"Uh huh. I need both of my ears. Let me have the scissors and I can get them out."

"I said I can get them out if you'd just hold still," Eli admonished.

"And I said…" He froze. A jumbled vision of a black-haired man popped into his mind. He and another man were throwing something at one another and laughing. The image faded too quickly to grasp onto.

"Toby! Go lay down," Eli commanded. His voice softened. "Are you all right?"

"Yeah…it was two men. I think I knew them, a long time ago, maybe."

"Like the two out by the fire?"

"I can't tell, but it felt different. They were smiling, and having a good time."

"What'd they look like?"

"One had dark hair, the other was an older man with a beard."

"Family? Or friends?"

He reached up above his ear to the healing wound. "Maybe…I was injured then, too..." his voice trailed off. Suddenly weary, he looked at Eli. "Can we take these stitches out tomorrow? I have some chores to finish in the barn and then I think I'll go to bed."

"Sure, we can do that."

Joe piped up, "Don't forget, I'm gonna show you the orchard tomorrow, too. And maybe we could go fishing at Crystal Lake."

"Son, I don't know if that's a wise idea."

"Aw, Pa, you said I could, and both the lake and the orchard ain't-aren't-that far away. And with school startin' and all soon, I won't have time otherwise."

He stood up from his chair. "I was meaning to talk to you tonight-about leaving. I need to be on my way to Ironton soon, but I could stay around a few more days. I think I'd like to try that fishing."

After a few long moments, Eli acquiesced with a nod. "Just for the morning, Joe. No longer. Keep in mind that school starts the day after tomorrow and I think you still have to finish that book you're holding in your hands."

Joe slumped against the stair railing. "Yes, Sir."

Scott stepped off the porch, and leaned over to ruffle Joe's hair, only to miss when the boy dodged his hand, grinning.

"Hold on," Eli said. He went back into the house and came out with a pistol and his holster. "I never did have much use for this old Army pistol. You said it needs cleaning, so you clean it and it's yours."

"I can't take…"

Mathias looked hard at him. "I'm trusting you-with everything I have. You'll need to have a firearm, so take it. Don't let me down."

He let his eyes shift to Joe for a moment then looked back at Eli and nodded, taking the weapon in his hands.

"We buried Ma near Crystal Lake, and we buried her high up so she could look down on her favorite place. Pa wouldn't let me help him, said he had to do it himself. I can show you the spot when we get there." Joe's words were spoken like a boy anxious to prove he's a man, and take on a man's responsibilities. He was glad that Eli hadn't let him, at least not yet. There was time enough for that.

This mountainous land had a way of trimming people down to size, he thought. Except, perhaps, for Joe's mother, and rightly so. He hadn't missed the wistfulness in Joe's eyes when he spoke about her. They pulled up suddenly and Joe pointed.

"There it is!"

The grave was located in a quiet spot above the lake, just like he had said. It was kept neatly trimmed but overlooked a riotous expanse of prairie grass and flowers, now partially withered from early morning frosts. Joe dismounted and walked over to the grave, stooping down to push off a small amount of dirt clinging to its base.

He stayed to the rear, allowing the boy his privacy. When Joe stood back up, he moved forward. "It's beautiful here. I can see why this was her favorite place." The boy seemed to perk up a bit, standing a little taller at the words.

"I picked it out. Me and her used to come here when we could. We'd sit over there on that big rock and talk about lots of things, but mostly home and what she wanted to do with it-the apple orchard was her idea. Pa didn't like it at first, thought it took too much land away from the money crops, but she talked him in to it." Joe looked away at the rocky shoreline rimming the lake. "She had a way of sayin' 'home' that always made me want to get up and go there, her and Pa came from the Arizona Territory, but here is where home is." His voice dwindled until it stopped and he took a large, hitching breath.

Joe flicked his head to the right, throwing bangs to the side, and stole a glance at him. "That's my Ma's barn coat you're wearing," he said cautiously.

"Your father gave it to me to wear because I didn't have anything else. If it bothers you, I can take it off."

A long silence ensued. "No, it's all right," the boy shrugged and shook his head, "it's just that...it's nice to see it out again." Joe looked back at the grave.

Because it seemed right, he placed his hand on Joe's shoulder. The boy shifted, leaning into his palm, and the silence stretched comfortably between them-man to man.

A longing leapt up in his heart. A place to call home and someone to go home to….

"Maybe we should get going, Joe. I'd still like to try a little fishing and we told your father we'd be back by noon," he said quietly.

Joe nodded and they both turned to their horses. A glimmer of light coming from the high trail they had just left caught his eye. With the sun facing him, he barely determined that the rider was male, pushing an appaloosa along in a slow jog. His hand hovered over the pistol strapped to his hip, but the rider continued on his way. It was unlikely that they'd even been seen this far down in the valley.

tbc


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The ringing blows of the ax were slow measured beats, pounding with the pulse of his heart as he swung it home time after time. Sweat beaded on his strained face and Eli paused to mop it with a faded bandana. He listened, his muscles tense, but he heard no sound. Nothing to tell him that his son was returning home. He chided himself; it was close to noon, not past, and Joe wasn't the timeliest of boys. He gripped the ax handle and prepared to swing. A faint noise caught his ear; it was a single horse trotting over pebbled roadway. Toby barked and ran past him. He smiled in anticipation, then frowned when he saw Tracey Conklin aboard his rangy appaloosa, coming around the bend in the trail. He leaned the ax against the barn.

Conklin was a bear of man both in size and personality, his face cagey under his battered hat as he pulled up his horse in front of the porch. Eli nodded to him.

Tracey sat back; all loose in the saddle, and crossed his hands over the pommel. "When the hell are you gonna move closer to town?"

It wasn't the usual greeting from the territorial marshal; he must have something on his mind. "Closer to Woodville? Maybe never."

"I'd wish you-and old man Walker-would reconsider, my piles are acting up and all this riding ain't doing a thing for' em."

Eli bit back a smile and crossed his arms. "Then Trace, why don't you get down and come in for a cup of coffee?"

"That's the best offer I've had all day, but I'm here on business. I will get off this damn horse, though."

Conklin heaved a sigh and dismounted, stretching over Toby to tie his mount to the porch rail. He dropped his hand down to run it across the dog sniffing at his boots.

"What business?" Eli asked sharply.

The marshal looked at him, an eyebrow raised. "I'm riding to Woodville. Figuring on deputizing Hamilton while I'm there, but wanted to stop out this way first."

"You're going to deputize Lionel Hamilton?" He couldn't quite keep the disbelief out of his voice.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, nothing, it's just that he…."

"He's a little on the rough side."

Eli nodded.

"Lionel may have some edges on him, but he's like a dog with a bone. You give him something to do, and it'll get done- one way or another."

"What are you going to deputize him for?"

"I was thinking it might be best to have some real law around here. I've been lookin' for some men, bad hombres, too. They're wanted for robbing a bank and a couple of stores. And that ain't the half; they managed to kill the clerk in Modesto and another in Monteray County. The trail is mixed but they might be headed out this way, or towards Woodville."

"Who are they?"

"One's a Mex, the other two are white boys. Hold on, I've got something on' em." He reached inside his vest pocket and pulled out a piece of paper.

"Don't have a name for the Mexican but the other two are Coy Pearson and Sam Martin. A four thousand dollar reward for the lot. All three are worrisome. There's some descriptions here, not much, but enough to go on. It looks like they might have split up a ways back. Probably did it to throw us off the scent."

"Those men will never reach a trial with Hamilton. You know that, don't you Trace?"

The marshal pondered his gloved hands and sighed. "Maybe those men don't deserve a trial."

"You believe that?"

"Can't I? They been killin' their way across the country. Hell, two men dead and a third might as well be. They haven't left any real witnesses behind."

Tracey tugged the gloves tight against his fingers and looked up at him. "All right, I'll remind Lionel of who he's representing when he pins on that badge. Here's hoping the old boy listens." He peered at him, head cocked to one side.

"You wouldn't be interested in the job, would you?"

He shook his head. "Still trying to get the last of the harvest in, and I can't leave Joe alone."

"I figured as much, just wanted to make the offer."

"Can I see the poster?"

Eli took the paper and anxiously skimmed it. He immediately dismissed the first account and skipped to Pearson, then finally landed on Sam Martin's narrative. Tall, blue-eyes, brown hair, twenties. The man who slept in his barn fit the description, three out of four. He let out a long expansive breath of air.

Conklin's eyes flicked over him, looking keenly. "You see something around here?"

He wrestled with warring thoughts. The description fit the stranger all right, but hadn't he shown to be trustworthy these last days? He'd remembered the old campsite, though, and those men. How did his wounds and old scars stack up against words on a wanted poster?

"You have seen someone." Conklin's statement broke through his misery.

"Is there anything else on these men? This description could fit a lot of…"

"Why are you beating around the bush, Eli? Just tell me."

His decision came with a large amount of tumult; the risk of having the man's memory come back-especially if it was of Sam Martin-was too high. With a tight feeling in his chest, he faced the marshal. "I found an injured man that fits one of these descriptions."

Conklin's head swung up in surprise. "How many days ago?"

"A couple of weeks ago now, but like I said, he was injured, badly. He'd been shot twice, once in the arm and a bullet crease across his head."

The marshal untied his reins from the railing. "Which way did he take off to? Trail's long cold now but maybe…"

He crammed the poster into his hip pocket. "Trace, he's still here."

"What?"

"He's still here, out with Joe to the lake for some fishing."

He could see him process the information and come to a logical conclusion. "Eli, are you getting soft or just three ways a fool? This man's a killer and you left Joe with him?"

"That poster describes more than a few men in the county, Tracey. And there's another thing, he can't remember who he is."

Conklin rolled his eyes. "And you bought that? You are a fool, Eli."

"I believe him, because _he_ believes it. I've been with him every day-he really can't remember. And I don't think he's a killer, it just doesn't fit."

"Why? Because he's grateful you saved his life? He could be a murderer, one of the worst." Conklin looked him square in the eye. "And your son could be payin' the price."

"Eli, the man you have here could've shot up that Monteray teller so bad they're just waitin' for him to die. And the clerk in Modesto? He had his neck sliced open from ear to ear. Try telling his widow that you don't think he's a killer."

Dark thoughts cart wheeled through his mind. Joe! He was overdue now, and with the stranger-who might be Sam Martin. Maybe there was an explanation, but if something had happened to his son…. He was furious with himself; he never should have let Joe go with the man. His disparaging remarks about Hamilton came back chillingly, if his son was hurt, there wouldn't be a way Conklin could hold him back from taking down the man who did it.

He went into the house for his rifle, snapping several rounds into the forty-four Henry, then stalked to the barn. The marshal watched him every step of the way, while Toby danced anxiously at his heels.

He came out, leading his roan, and tied the bridle. At the clatter of several hoof beats, the dog peeled out of the yard, barking with full volume. He tensed and angled his head above the horse's neck, eyes searching the trail past the yard. Tracey had pulled his revolver out of the holster.

"Pa! Hey, Pa!" Joe's voice rang out above the ruckus.

He leaned against the saddle, his face stiff. Joe sailed into the yard, a grin stretched wide, his pinto's black mane jerking and falling every which way. Old Sally and her rider followed closely behind.

Even before he stopped the pony, Joe was yelling out again. "You shoulda been there. It was the biggest fish I've ever seen. It broke our line but we sure gave it a run for the money."

Managing a weak smile, he shoved the rifle into the boot and turned to face them.

Joe eyed him from the saddle, suddenly wary. "What's wrong?"

He went to him and placed a hand on his leg. "I need you to go into the house, son."

He twitched the bangs out of his face and slid down from his horse, looking at the marshal standing a few feet away. "Why, Pa? What's goin' on?"

"Do as I say and go into the house." His voice was hard without meaning to be.

Joe looked back to the man who had been sharing their house and home, a solid frown outlining his worry. He turned away and walked into the house.

The stranger turned his attention to the marshal-staring at the tightly held pistol-then swung his gaze back to him. Dismounting, he stood next to Sally, arms held loosely at his side. "What's this about, Eli?"

In answer, he thrust the poster towards him. A myriad of emotions crossed the man's face as he read it, until realization finally settled in.

"You think I'm Sam Martin."

It would have been easier if the man was yelling at him, anything other than the simply stated words. He nodded. "You could be."

"I'm not."

"How do you know that, is your memory coming back?"

"I can't explain it. I know I couldn't have done these things."

Eli stared at him for a few long moments. "That's just not good enough right now," he said quietly.

Conklin brushed past him, handcuffs outstretched. The man stumbled back against Sally, uncertainty knitted across his brow.

"Tracey! Those aren't necessary."

"They are where he's goin'. Hold your gun on' im."

"Wait!" The word was barely out of the man's mouth when Conklin rounded on him with a hard right, plowing him down to the ground, under Sally's restless hooves. He rolled out of the way of her striking forefoot and propped up on one hand, the other to his bloodied lip.

The young man struggled his way back up, standing shakily beside the horse. "All I wanted was to take this coat off. It belongs here, with you and your son." He eased it off, holding it away from him.

Conklin took the jacket, throwing it to Eli, and made quick work of clicking the handcuffs in place. The old pistol was pulled out of his holster and tossed to the side.

The front door slammed back against its hinges and Joe came running out. "Pa, what did you do?" His words brimmed with reproach.

Eli tried to snag Joe, but he wrenched away and stood to the side, staring wide-eyed at the shackled man.

"Joe, it'll be all right. Things will be straightened out before you know it." The man reassured his son, but the small smile he wore didn't quite reach his eyes.

The marshal spoke up, "I'll need the loan of your horse to get him to Woodville; I'll pick up another there and send yours back. Keep your eyes peeled for the other two, they might still be around. One last thing, I'll ask you to do a favor and let the Walkers know about all of this, tell 'em to be on the watch."

Eli was unable to keep the sudden fatigue out of his voice, "Trace, where will you take him?"

"You care?"

"I care."

"If it makes you feel any better, I won't leave' im with Lionel. I'll need to bundle him on over to Monteray County for trial," he looked over to his prisoner, "and unless he recovers his memory and can prove who he is, I expect it'll be a short one."

Joe gasped and started towards them. Eli was able to grab an arm and haul him in close as the two men mounted. Tracey turned the horses and led them slowly past the barn.

Conklin paused and said over his shoulder, "A third of that reward comes to you, Eli, after everything is said and done. I'll make sure you get it."

The man twisted in the saddle, as far as his manacled hands would allow, and looked back, his eyes questioning.

Joe turned to face him. "You let the marshal take him-for money? Why, Pa?"

He didn't have a ready answer. The thought of reward money never entered his mind. And how could he tell his son that the man was dangerous, when he couldn't quite believe it himself?

Joe ran back into the house, leaving Eli alone in the middle of the yard.

Their hoof beats finally echoed away. He bent down to pick up the wanted poster lying in the dirt, creased and torn. It seemed to him every muscle in his body was knotted with strain. Bitterness rose in the back of his throat, knowing he had just sold the man to his death. Sighing deeply, he clutched the old barn coat tighter. _I'm sorry, Anna._

 _#-#-#-#-#_

An hour dragged by, then two more, before the riders were forced to stop. The marshal, bent over Sally's hoof, scowled. "It's got a crack in it a mile wide."

Sally's rider smiled. "I told you an hour ago she was having problems."

"Yeah? Well now you've got more problems. Get down off the horse, Mister. It looks like it's your day to walk to Woodville."

The man threw his leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the ground.

Conklin motioned with his gun. "Lead her over to that poplar. There's a ranch an hour or so from here, we'll stop to get another horse and send back for this one."

He led the animal to the tree and looked to the now-mounted marshal. The gun tilted towards the front of the appaloosa. "Start walking."

He shrugged a little and started out.

There was little movement around except for the two men and the horse. Each plodding hoof strike was loud in the quietness of the late afternoon.

"You know, you're awful calm for a man most likely facing murder charges…and the end of a rope."

"Ever arrest the wrong man before, Marshal? You have now."

Conklin chuckled. "Huh, haven't heard that one before. I will say it was real handy of Eli to turn you in, saved me a lot of hard miles."

The man stopped abruptly and turned around, causing the horse to throw its head to the right. "Eli was doing what he thought he had to."

The marshal peered at him, his eyes hard. "All right, all right. Keep going. You wouldn't want to make it easy and tell me where the rest of your friends are, would you?"

Silence greeted his request.

"Didn't figure you would," the marshal sighed, "men like you never do."

The trail became heavily forested as they drew nearer to the edge of the timber line. The prisoner slipped a few times, smacked by low branches. He caught one in his hand and held it tight, walking forward, then let it spring free.

The appaloosa shied at the sudden assault and reared, throwing its rider off to the side. The man pounced, drawing the marshal out of the saddle. A cloud of dust billowed up as they landed together on the hard-packed ground and rolled. Conklin's clenched hand struck out and missed, while the prisoner brought his own two fists-coupled together by handcuffs-in a downward thrust, clipping the lawman on his chin.

Seconds stretched out and seemed to become minutes. It was silent except for the wild beat of his heart and the harshness of his breathing. The marshal lay on his side, quiet and still.

There wasn't much time. He rolled the unconscious man over to his back, frantically looking for the key. Finding it in a vest pocket, he shook off the cuffs and flung them into the brush. The fat bulge of a wallet stood out in another pocket and he liberated a few bills, stuffing them into his pocket. He rose and picked up the marshal's firearm, flipping it easily into his empty holster. Mounting up, he spared one last glance for the fallen man and kicked the horse into a run.

tbc


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

A well-mannered fire, a glass of Scotch-preferably an Ardmore whiskey-and an overstuffed chair. He didn't know where it had come from; the warm image suddenly sprang to mind. A drop of rain hit his eye and the vision melted away.

No hat, no coat, his head throbbing from Conklin's punch…he supposed he was a pitiful sight. Time meant nothing now, he had no idea how long it had been since leaving the marshal asleep underneath the junipers.

He was in the hills, keeping to the shoals of a sandy riverbank, a move designed to erase any tracks. Coming out of the river, the path twisted around among the wooded slopes. It wasn't often that he could see a hundred feet in front of him, and despite the disadvantage, he figured the marshal would have the same problem. All he could do was keep moving and hope.

The gelding was responding well to the rough terrain. He didn't know how good of a mount he'd taken until after the second hour of hard riding. It took a special type of horse to pick its way around safely, and this one had the experience. Unfortunately, it was also a real liability. He grinned wryly; it would have been much better stealing a less flashy horse than this appaloosa, with its white coat and black spots. But it was good enough to get him to where he was now; there would be enough time to worry about that tomorrow.

He eased past a stand of pines and pulled up. It had started to drizzle in earnest, so the careful planning seemed to be for naught. If it rained like it was threatening to do, he wouldn't have to worry about Conklin finding anything.

It was edging into evening when the sky turned black, with curtains of dark clouds hanging between the mountain ranges. The rain had come at last. He forced his way into a narrow crevice as it pelted down. A draft of cold wind stabbed through his thin shirt and for the first time that day he wished he had kept Eli's coat. Coming out the other end, he ducked under some low hanging boulders, guiding the horse into a small hollow. Up ahead, a few sandstone rocks had pushed against one another to form a large cave. He dismounted and pulled the reluctant animal in behind him just as lightening skittered across the horizon.

Standing at the mouth of the makeshift shelter, he looked out, chafing his hands together briskly. The rain was outside but there was a definite cold within. The horse nudged his back, its hot breath warming his neck. The juxtaposition of coldness combined with that small bit of heat sent him shivering.

He would need some real warmth, and soon. He wished for a fire, but dared not make one, at least not yet; hopefully his position was still unknown to whoever might be following him. Instead, he turned and led the horse to the back of the cave.

The bedroll peeled away from the saddle with little effort and he was rewarded by a dry shirt dropping from its folds. Marshal Conklin was a big man and not only in height. Where Eli's shirt was too short, Conklin's was too long. He pushed the excess into his jeans and wrapped the bedroll blanket around his shoulders. The wet shirt was carefully laid across a rock to dry. His fingers were getting stiff when he attacked the saddle, the horse waiting patiently while he fumbled, loosening the cinch only.

Sheets of rain pounded outside his rocky door. He decided that between the heavy downpour and the slope of the land, a small fire wouldn't be detected if it was far enough back in the cave. He looked around and found a corner where an animal or bird had made a nest. Gathering the twigs and bit of brush together in a small pile, the long-dead wood sputtered, then sprang to life. The fire was so tiny he could have held it in his hands, yet the yellow flicker was oddly comforting. He held his blue-tinged fingers as close to it as he dared.

Conklin's saddle bags were light; they held a few papers, including two wanted posters, and the one thing he hoped would be in there-coffee. The small packet was rolled in parchment and tucked into a side pocket. Feeding the fire with bits torn from one of the posters, he held the water-and-grounds filled cup to the flame and boiled it.

Ammunition was plentiful and a fairly new rifle was an added boon, all courtesy of the marshal. Both were placed beside him on the ground when he finally settled back against an outcropping, cup in hand. One of the posters lay forgotten under his feet and he picked it up, tapping the dirt off, to read the descriptions again.

He knew he wasn't this Sam Martin, yet he couldn't prove it, to himself or anyone else for that matter. One or all of the wanted men could have been at the old campsite where Eli had led him to that day. But what was his reason for being there?

Eli. He'd thought a lot about him throughout the day. Mostly he missed the company of someone he knew-and had liked and respected. The betrayal stung-badly-but he couldn't bring himself to blame Eli for his actions. That was half a falsehood. He did blame him for the betrayal but not the reasoning behind it. Conklin showing up with the poster was damning all right. Mathias had to make a decision and a quick one at that.

That first day…. Since waking up in Joe's bed, things had been jumbled. Off-kilter. Snatches of people and places he couldn't tie together. And since he couldn't remember anything before the incident, he made damn sure to remember everything that had happened since. A smile came to his lips. He could taste Eli's coffee right now and could see the way Joe pursed his lips when trying to read his mathematics book. And Toby, always with a head on his leg or bumping up his arm for a pat.

Eli had once told him he was lost. The man was right, he had to find his past and prove who or what he was. He might not have had a memory but he did have habits and they offered a few clues. And he'd already discovered that if he just let himself go without trying to direct his actions, it went pretty well.

The trail to his identity started in Ironton and led to one man, Daniel Sorensen. He pulled the balled-up envelope from his pocket and smoothed out the wrinkles, once more running his fingers over the thick, dark scrawl on the outside. It was so close, the memory was right there. If he could just reach out and grab it. The problem, he decided, was that he didn't write the name. He'd compared his handwriting to the signature on the envelope many days ago, and they didn't match. He tried hard to think about what the envelope might have contained. A letter? A bill of sale? Money?

The longer he looked at it, the higher his frustration grew. Shoving the paper back into his pocket, he tugged the blanket tighter around his shoulders, looking into the fire for any answers it might hold. The coffee grounds had slowly drifted to the bottom of the cup and he took a tentative sip of the brew, grimacing with the bitterness. But it was hot and that's all that mattered.

#-#-#-#-#

The rain had moved off to the north finally, leaving a few stranded puddles here and there. Woodville lay before them in an average sort of way. It wasn't the worst town Johnny had been in, but it wasn't the best, either. A mercantile, the feed store, a few other nondescript clapboard buildings all clothed in the shadows of twilight. They'd pushed hard these last few miles, hoping to make it here before nightfall. He was unsettled and edgy, things weren't right. His easy reassurances to Murdoch a few days ago didn't seem to hold as much water now as they did that first night. How long had it been since he'd last seen Scott? Over two weeks now? Or was it closer to three? No sign of him on the most obvious route. And his brother would have taken the most direct course, of that he was sure. They'd stopped to check at the odd ranch house here and there on the way, and still nothing. He hoped this shanty town would hold some answers-they were running out of places to look.

He glanced at Murdoch. The old man was tired. He looked odd with that bit of grey scruff about his cheeks. He hadn't ever pictured Murdoch with a beard and couldn't see it now. He raised a hand to his cheek and felt the sharp spikes of his own stubble. They would get a room at whatever flea-ridden hotel Woodville could offer and stay a day or two, if he could talk Murdoch into it. Maybe he would actually rest a bit.

There was one person in the boarding house when they stepped in. A man, looking substantial in dirt-encrusted overalls, sprawled in a leather-bound chair, his black head propped up on one meaty hand, snoring lightly.

He went up to the counter and rang the bell twice in quick succession. The snoring abruptly stopped, the seated man starting at the noise. He gaped openly at them, not bothering to hide the thorough assessment. Soon enough, he pulled himself upright and stumbled out the door.

"Real friendly little town," Johnny said, watching the man leave.

Murdoch tipped his chin. "Ring it again, John. Someone has to be here."

His hand hovered over the bright bell just as a voice bellowed from behind a door.

"Hold your damn horses! I'm comin'. This better be good, Harley, or you'll spend the night sleepin' in the street instead of my chair."

The bespectacled man came to a shuddering stop, his apron ties swinging. He nodded. "Evenin' gents. Didn't know you all were here, was just makin' supper."

Murdoch placed his worn saddlebags on the counter with a grunt. "We'll need a room, two beds. And we're looking for a man."

The clerk nodded then shoved the sign-in book towards them. Peering over the tops of his glasses, his eyes flicked over Murdoch then swept to Johnny, and stayed.

Murdoch motioned to the door. "I think Harley just left."

"Huh?" He finally turned away. "Oh, yeah, that's Harley. Asked to spend the night here-never gets a room, just uses the chair, does it every time he gets a little soaked." The man's head swiveled back.

Their eyes met for a while and Johnny half-smiled. "Did I forget to put on somethin' I should have? Let's see…shirt-yeah." He held his jacket lapels outwards. "Coat, for sure-it's gettin' nippy out. Pants-check." His hands slid down to his holster and he caressed the black leather, watching the man's face color. "Gun-always."

"Johnny," Murdoch cautioned.

"I'd just like to know what he finds so all-fired interesting about me, Murdoch. That's all."

The man straightened. "We got us some bonafide desperados hereabouts in Woodville; at least the deputy says so." He jabbed a finger towards him. "And you fit the rough description of one of' em."

"How rough?"

The counterman shrugged. "One of' em was Mexican. Ain't you, uh…Mexican? You dress like one."

Johnny leaned on the counter with a slow smile. "Half."

The man took a step backwards. "Well…anyway, you got the wrong eyes, the poster says they're brown not blue. Looks like I grabbed the wrong pig by the tail."

Murdoch's deep voice rumbled up from his chest, "Add it to the fact that he's my son, and I think that about clears it up."

The man came forward again and scratched his chin. "Yeah, that'd about do it all right."

"What did these men do?" asked Murdoch.

"Word is that they killed a couple of men, one in Monterey and another in Modesto."

Murdoch looked thoughtful. "Were they supposed to be heading towards Woodville?"

The clerk nodded, "At some time or another. This town ain't so much-nothing here-if I was them I'd be looking for fatter pickings up north in Ironton." He pulled open a drawer and scrounged for the inkwell, handing it over to Murdoch. "What's the name of the man you're lookin' for?"

"Scott Lancer, he's my other son. I'm Murdoch Lancer."

The man shook his head. "No, I'd remember that name. Course, I'm not the only game in town. There's always the Number Eight, that is if you think your boy might be snuggling up some gal tonight." He looked quickly at Murdoch. "Beg your pardon and all."

Johnny shook his head. "Scott's more the type to try some romancing first, then maybe a little snuggling."

"Those painted cats over at the 'Eight ain't too particular, if you get my drift. It's all the same just so long as they get their money."

"He wouldn't have been here within the last few days, more like the last week or two." Murdoch said.

The clerk frowned. "No, there hasn't been a Scott Lancer signed in here and I'm a demon for names and faces."

Johnny flipped through the pages of the book, scanning the entries. "You said there was a lawman somewhere around here?"

The man behind the counter shuffled a bit, taking the sign-in book back. "Newly deputized, too. Lionel Hamilton's his name. You'd probably find him over at the saloon or behind the weigh scale, down at the mercantile. But I wouldn't be looking for him unless it was real important. Lionel don't like to be bothered by nonsense." He picked out a key from the letterbox. "Here you go gents, number twenty-three, last door on the right." He held onto the key-eyebrows lifted-when Murdoch reached for it, then smiled when his father took the hint and threw a few coins on the counter.

He scooped up the coinage with one hand. "Oh, and Mister? Sorry about the confusion."

"You got any problems with a Mexican stayin' at your place?" Johnny asked.

The gap-toothed grin spread across his face. "Now, that's where me and those mauks over the saloon see eye to eye, I'm not too particular either, just so long as the money's up front." He pointed vaguely towards the stairs. "Bath is down the hallway. No water tonight, though. Have a good evenin'."

The spare room only validated what he'd seen in the street. Average. Maybe below average, a fat mouse skittered across the floor and disappeared into the woodwork. He threw his saddlebags down on the first bed, nearest the door, and lit the lamp. Murdoch had done the same to the second bed and was standing by the window, looking out. As Johnny watched, his hand crept into his coat pocket and pulled out the crumpled bit of paper. He angled his head towards the light, trying to read it.

"Those words on the telegram change any?" he asked his father softly.

The tall man's shoulders hunched a bit before turning around. "Unfortunately, no," he said, shoving it back into his pocket.

Johnny looked down for a moment and stuck his hands behind his back, held tight underneath his holster belt. "Those men the clerk mentioned," he raised his head, "nothing says that Scott ran into 'em, you know?"

The words sounded worthless as soon as they left his mouth, leaving his father looking as unconvinced as he felt. Murdoch grabbed his hat from the bed. "I think we'd better find that deputy and see what he has to say."

tbc


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

"I'm telling you, we had all those killers right here, big as life, playin' cards just the other week."

"Aw, go on, that's a bunch of horse shit, Bill."

The bartender shook his head stubbornly and took another swipe at the oaken top with the sodden towel. He glowered at the hapless drunk. "I tell ya, I think it was them."

"What happened then?" an eager voice asked.

"One of'em drew his guns-the other was cheatin' at cards-and everyone dove under the tables, waitin' for the lead to fly."

"Hey Bill, and I suppose you were just standin' here watching the whole thing go down."

"Well, yeah, I was," he said and stared down the speaker. "As I was sayin', neither one fired but they both smiled at each other real cold like. Then they looked over to me. Fellas, I gotta tell ya, the world just about stood still. Then they both put their guns back away, like it was some kind of joke or whatnot. Damn, if I'd a known then what I know now…I'd be halfway to 'Frisco, four thousand dollars richer."

Heads nodded

"It's still a load of horse shit." The drunk tiredly waved him off and lurched into a waiting chair.

Johnny and Murdoch finally caught the bartender's eye and ordered two beers as the crowd slowly dispersed back to their seats. The Number Eight was hopping, even for a Friday night.

"We're looking for the deputy. Is he around here?" asked Murdoch.

"Who, Lionel? He's probably over to his office. Hasn't been in tonight, but he's due soon."

The bartender was looking intently at them now, speculation written across his thin face. "You got somethin' you need to take up with him?"

Johnny leaned on the counter and wrapped a hand around his beer glass. "Yeah, somethin'."

"We're looking for my son," Murdoch began, "Scott Lancer. He's twenty-five, has blond hair and blue eyes."

The bartender started wiping down the counter with vigorous strokes. "Nope, haven't seen or heard about him around here."

"You'd remember if you heard him talk," offered Johnny, "he's from back east."

"Like I said, I haven't heard of the man, but who you're sort of describin' sounds like…"

"Like the man Marshal Conklin is looking for." The words were uttered quietly, but the click of a hammer being pulled back was obscenely loud, made even more so since the Number Eight had suddenly gone silent.

The bartender backed away to the side as Johnny and Murdoch glanced at each other and slowly turned around.

"Keep your hands up!" the man growled.

Lionel Hamilton, Johnny thought. His clothes weren't much, but that tin star was nice and big, stuck up there over his left breast pocket, shining like a beacon. He was a couple inches shorter than Murdoch and weighed a good fifty pounds more, swaggering it around now as he walked towards them, as if he was mighty impressed with himself. His bushy black eyebrows clamped together in a straight line, looking like a single hash mark across his forehead.

A movement by the swinging doors of the saloon caught his eye. It was Harley, the man from the boarding house, just peeking out over the top. He must have high-tailed right to the deputy after seeing them.

Hamilton edged closer, his gun looking dangerous. Murdoch shifted his weight then froze when the weapon swung his way.

"What's this about, Deputy?" Murdoch asked.

"It's all about finding some wanted men, Mister. And this one," he tipped the gun to Johnny, "fits the bill. Besides which, you're looking for the other man, too."

"Look, we're just trying to find my brother," said Johnny.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that. So unless you can prove who you are and what you're doing in Woodville, I figure its going to be a few long days for you fellas until the marshal gets back in town." He grinned widely. "You're lucky, I promised the marshal I'd hold any prisoners until he got back. Now take those weapons out and lay 'em on the counter, real easy. I'm sure the bartender here doesn't want to clean up a big mess on his floor so late at night."

They placed their weapons down as the deputy jerked his head towards the door. "We'll be going over to the jail now. Bill, I'd be much obliged if you were to send over those guns as soon as you get the chance. Harley! Get over here and help me with these two. If you want part of that reward, you'd best be earning it."

The bar sounds rose steadily as they left the establishment, the patrons murmuring amongst themselves, sounding like so many bees in a hive. They'd have something to talk about at home tonight.

Johnny looked around at the nondescript room from his slouch against the wall. The jail-not a year old-still looked as damn depressing as any other jail he had seen or had the misfortune to be in. His hand snaked upwards to his neck, kneading the knotted muscles found there. Scott was tied up in all of this mess he was sure of it, but where the hell was he?

Murdoch was still leaning over the desk, butting heads with Hamilton, as he'd been doing for the last ten minutes. The old man could be loud when he wanted to be, and right now he was on point. He winced when the flat of Murdoch's large hand hit the desk top once more. If the redness in Hamilton's face was any indication, he wasn't going to stand for much more of it.

"I'll ask you again, what's the meaning of all this?" thundered Murdoch.

Hamilton stood and jabbed a finger. "And I told you-we're looking for some wanted men, killers, as a matter of fact. And your boy over there fits the description. Or at least he did. Goddamned Harley got it all mixed up. And then you coughed up that telegram from Ironton."

Johnny shifted in his lean. Even if he was expecting an apology over the mix-up-and he wasn't-he sure as hell wasn't going to get it from the deputy.

"And you were asking about the other one, Sam Martin. What was I supposed to think?"

Exasperated, Murdoch rocked back a little on his heels and stared at the lawman. "Scott Lancer, I was asking about Scott Lancer, not Sam Martin. Let me see that wanted poster." He snatched the piece of paper out of Hamilton's grasp and read it over quickly.

He flicked at the paper with two fingers. "This doesn't even match my son, Deputy. It could be anybody."

Hamilton shrugged. "It doesn't matter anyhow; Marshal Conklin is out with a posse after Martin right now. He was bringing the boy to trial when he escaped, so the marshal deputized a few of the men in town. Haven't heard back from them so they must still be on the trail, rain probably held them up some."

He finally spoke up from the wall. "All this doesn't get us any closer to findin' Scott."

Murdoch ran a hand through his hair and sighed. "Johnny's right. If he wasn't here in town then maybe someone has seen him around the area. Are there any ranches nearby we can check on?"

The deputy looked around his desk for a bit then pulled out a map. He pointed out several spots, naming each one. "There's a couple out west of here, too. Mathias' farm and the Walkers. Kind of off the beaten path, though."

"It'll do for a start. We'll canvass the ranches tomorrow." Murdoch and Hamilton eyed each other across the desk.

Johnny touched his father's sleeve. "C'mon, Murdoch. Let's find that boarding house."

They stepped off the wooden walk outside the jail and into the night. Johnny shook his head. "Taken for someone else twice in one night, must be some kinda record, huh?"

Murdoch somberly agreed. "I hope Hamilton knows enough to spread the word or we may find a lot more people looking to cash in on your looks. Here's hoping that tomorrow will bring some better news."

#-#-#-#-#

The day had dawned, cold and dreary, the sun barely making a dent in the sky. Thoughtfully, Johnny walked outside the boarding house. A silence had started between him and Murdoch last night, and it still held sway this morning. The tussle at the jail last night kind of wore on his father. And on him, too. He had a bad feeling about those wanted men he couldn't shake loose.

He untied the horses and handed the reins to Murdoch as he stepped off the boardwalk. A solitary man, sitting slumped on a big bay roan, passed them, his face wide and taut underneath his hat. He caught the man's eye and nodded to him.

The rider pulled up sharply and stared. He shook himself a bit then urged his horse to a trot.

Murdoch stepped up beside him. "Johnny, is that someone you know?"

"Not me, Murdoch, he didn't look familiar anyway. He's headin' to the deputy's office, though, maybe he'll get what he needs there."

They turned to mount up and heard the loud rumble of a wagon quickly approaching, its cargo in the back bumping up and down with each pull of the horses. As they watched it lumber past, the tarp flipped up and an arm flopped out from underneath. Clad in a white, stained sleeve, it bounced with each rut in the road, eerily waving at them. The driver pulled up in front of the jail and ran into the deputy's office.

Murdoch stared at the macabre sight, the profound frown on his face drew down his eyes and etched in lines that hadn't been there a few weeks ago.

"Are you ready?" Johnny asked, obviously interrupting the older man's thoughts.

His father breathed in deeply then let go with a heavy sigh. "More trouble for someone. Let's get going, son, we have a large area to cover today."

They mounted up and walked their horses past the boarding house, getting as far as the now-quiet Number Eight saloon, when they heard someone yelling for them.

"Lancer! Mr. Lancer!"

Johnny twisted in the saddle. It was Harley, puffing after them on thick legs, one overall strap loose and jumping.

The man bent forward with the exertion, hands on knees, and huffed out his message. "Deputy…says to come quick …found your son."

He skimmed a look at Murdoch. His father's rugged features had gone starkly pale. It was only a moment before the big man pulled his horse around and sent it flying past Harley, kicking up dust.

They reined in and dismounted at the wagon beside Hamilton, who nodded to them. "It looks like Amos here found your boy. He was out scouting game and came across the body."

A feeling of dread overwhelmed him. He watched Murdoch as his face tightened and grayed at the deputy's blunt comments.

"The body's been out there for at least a couple of days. Animals got to it, but I'm hoping you can recognize it. Man was shot through the temple, up close like. Not much of a face left." His gut churned while Murdoch visibly flinched at the words, his big hand turning into a fist.

Hamilton jerked up the leather covering, revealing the body underneath.

He stared down at the grisly mess that was once the man's head. Then realization struck home.

"That isn't Scott." He shook his head vehemently, "Murdoch, that isn't Scott."

"I know, Johnny." The words were barely more than a whisper.

The deputy crowded past him and looked up at Murdoch. "You sure, Lancer? I mean it's kind of hard to tell."

Murdoch spun to the man, his lips thinning out to a long line. "I know my own son!"

"All right, all right. But if that ain't your boy then who is it?"

As one they looked back down at the tarp-covered body. Hamilton suddenly yelled out. "Eli, that prisoner Conklin picked up at your place-Sam Martin-think you can identify him?"

The man Hamilton had called out to was standing off to the side, his face grave. He nodded once and came off the boardwalk to the wagon. Hesitating for a bit, he took a firm hold of the canvas then lifted upwards. He looked searchingly at the body for long moments, then dropped it back down again, relief evident in his face. He shook his head. "That's not the man who was at my house, Lionel. I'm sure."

Hamilton scratched the back of his head. "So if he isn't yours," he pointed at Murdoch, "and he isn't Martin, then who the hell is he?"

Eli looked at Murdoch. "Your son, what does he look like?"

"He's tall, blond hair, blue eyes. Twenty-five years old," replied Murdoch.

"What was he doing around here?" asked Eli.

"What are you gettin' at, Mister?" countered Johnny.

"I'm just asking what your brother was doing here, it's important."

Murdoch jammed a hand into his coat pocket, retrieving the crumpled telegram. "He was traveling, to Ironton, to offer a contract on some of our stock."

"Was he going to see a 'Daniel Sorensen' in Ironton?"

Murdoch swung his head up to look at the man, eyes narrowing. "How did you know?"

Eli turned away and gripped the wagon's sideboard. "He wasn't Martin after all."

"Who wasn't Martin?" Murdoch asked, puzzled.

"I had an injured man at my farm and I think he was your son."

Johnny and Murdoch exchanged a look. "Where is he now?" asked Johnny.

"That's just the thing; I didn't know he was your son. I thought he was this Martin. Marshal Conklin showed up at the farm and had the wanted poster. It fit your son, most ways."

"And you just let the marshal take him." He took a full step towards the farmer, only to be stopped by Murdoch's hand on his arm. He'd have to be a blind man not to see it. Eli had sold his brother out to the lawman. After all, wasn't there a cash reward for the killers?

The farmer nodded miserably. "Conklin arrested him for the murders in Monteray and Modesto."

He tried to take another step, but Murdoch's arm was suddenly across his chest preventing it. Eli blanched a little and looked funny, a mixture of guilt and sorrow crossing his broad face. That look-and Murdoch-had just saved him.

His father turned to Hamilton. "I thought you said that the marshal's prisoner had escaped."

"I did," the deputy said, "and the posse is out there right now, looking for him."

"So Scott's out there somewhere running for his life. Murdoch, we need to get goin' and find him."

"Scott? Is that his name?" interrupted Eli.

They both turned to look at him.

Eli backed up a step. "I never knew his name. He'd been badly injured, like I said. He was shot in the arm…and the head. When he woke up, he couldn't remember who he was."

"What?" Murdoch exclaimed, his voice halfway to a shout.

Eli was shaking his head. "It's a long story."

"We ain't got a lot of time, Mister. And neither does my brother." Johnny said.

The telling of it was hurriedly done in the deputy's office. Unbridled energy roiled up within him. He kicked off from his spot on the wall, the same one he had occupied last night, to pace the small space. Scott had barely survived the vicious attack, only to be hunted again, this time by the law, for something he didn't do. Time wasn't on their side, they needed to leave.

Eli stumbled over quiet words. "I was trying to find out exactly where the marshal was taking him…thinking I could testify on his behalf."

Murdoch looked hard at him for a few moments then finally stood. "Thank you for helping him when he needed it." He stretched out his hand. Mathias was taken by surprise and wavered before standing to shake.

They walked out of the office to gather their horses, when Eli stopped them once more. "Mr. Lancer, your son…he had some scars on his back. They were what made me think he'd been a prisoner at one time, someone with a criminal record."

It was a slim excuse in Johnny's mind. Empty words at best. They dredged up a name from Scott's past-Dan Cassidy-and a time when Scott had barely survived another betrayal…and a second escape. His palm settled reflexively on the butt of his gun, fingers dancing on the holster's edge. The same feelings from back then when he'd been looking, without success, for his brother, simmered to the top again. Impotence and frustration. It made him want to hit something-or someone.

Murdoch looked at Eli with sadness banked in his eyes, then said curtly, "My son _was_ a prisoner, Mr. Mathias. For one year-in a confederate prison camp."

That same sadness was now echoed in Eli's grey eyes.

Good, thought Johnny. Let him hurt a little, it was fitting.

tbc


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

He awoke with a start from his cramped sitting position against the outcropping of small boulders in the cave. For an instant he looked around at the unfamiliar setting, trying to recall where he was and all that had occurred the last day. It had been a long night of fitful catnaps, in between the storm and listening for sounds of men or horses. His own horse had awoken him this time; snuffling the side of his face and lipping the blanket. He batted the damp nose away from him and yanked the blanket up to his chin, studying the ceiling of the cave. Light shadows were slanting across the rocks; it looked to be early morning.

It was a struggle to stand upright; coldness had seeped into his bones sometime during the night. Eli's old shirt was a testament to the amount of moisture in the air and still lay wet over the rock where he'd put it the night before. Peering out, he saw that the rain had done its job well-a little too well-large amounts of silt from mountain runoff lay before him. There was no way of getting out of the cave without leaving some evidence he'd been there. If the marshal was after him-and there wasn't any doubt in his mind of that-he hoped to be long gone before it became a problem. He went to work and gathered his meager belongings together.

He'd been on the trail for over an hour when a fat rabbit plunged into the brush to his left. His stomach grumbled in protest, but it was far too risky to fire a weapon for game-it would reverberate for miles. And he didn't know what awaited him when he rode out of the hills. After a dozen or more tight turns, he guided his mount out of the high country. They were going north, not in as straight a line as he'd like but northwards, nonetheless. He followed a dim, narrow trail through a notch in the sandstone, the appaloosa's ears suddenly pricking forward with interest. He reined up, but there was only quiet, with the occasional click of hoof against rock. Pressing forward, he saw a house about a quarter mile away, perched amongst the trees.

It was a stone cabin, done without mortar, securely hidden away with a small corral and barn attached. From his higher vantage point he saw an older man, dressed oddly in a black top hat and leather shirt, bent over a string of hides. He watched the site for a while to see if anyone else was around, then eased down the trail.

A loud braying met his ears before the appaloosa had a chance to set a second hoof on the path. The man shouted from his work table. "You better ride on down now."

He was an older man, in his sixties at least, with a speech that was heavily accented. The fine white beard on his ruddy face settled over his open collar and flowed to mid-chest. His tanned leather shirt bore some odd markings here and there, with bead work accompanying the fringe along its seams. The black top hat had seen better days but it sat cocked to the side of the man's head, a piece of fur substituting admirably for the hatband. A deadly-looking bowie knife, used to scrape hides, was resting on the table's edge.

As he edged towards the clearing, a donkey stuck its head through the neatly-made slatted corral and brayed once more.

"It will be all right, Jenny. I know the stranger's there. Huh, he'll have to go some to get past you, won't he gal?" The man looked up at him. "Yessir, don't need no dog when Jenny's on duty."

They both stared at one another for a few long moments.

The old man scratched his head, making his jaunty hat even more askew. "Well, since you ain't drawn your gun yet, it looks to me like you want something more than to steal me blind." He swiveled and motioned to the donkey. "There's nothing here to take, except Jenny. And then you would get a fight." When the man turned back the knife was clenched in his hand and the joviality was gone.

"What do you want, boy? And don't get no idea about reaching for that gun. I can throw a lot quicker than you think."

He hunched in the saddle, weighing options, then rested his forearm on the horn. "I need a meal…and a trade or swap, if you will, of the horse." He swung down and stood clear of the appaloosa. "Look for yourself, he's a good animal."

The man's piercing blue eyes bored into him. "Ya, I can see he's a real good horse. You been traveling pretty hard with him, too." There was a marked silence then the man spoke again. "Conklin-is he dead?"

That frank question caught him by surprise and he contemplated the reins in his hands.

"I'd know that horse anywheres, sonny," the man prodded.

"He was alive when I left him," he nodded, "although he might have to chew on the opposite side of his mouth for a few days."

The blueness of the man's eyes shifted and the corners of his mouth crinkled as a smile slid upwards. "Haw, haw! That son of a bitch always did have a glass jaw!" He slid the knife into the sheath secured to his side and clapped his hands together. "Now I ain't got much, but I'd be proud to share it with anyone who got over on Marshal Conklin! Let's put this here fine horse up in the stable and get something to eat."

#-#-#-#-#

Without the top hat, his white hair tufted out at all angles, its fullness belying the man's age. He placed two cups on the table.

"Aanonsen is my name. But people most generally call me Tor-easier to say." He got the coffee pot and refilled the cups, stealing a glance at his face. "And what be your name, sonny?"

He was closer to Ironton now, would he be taking a chance using Daniel Sorensen's name? He ran a finger tip along the crooked seam in the table. "Sam," he began, "Sam…Mathias."

He held his breath while Tor stroked his beard.

"Mathias. Seems I heard a name like that before, somewhere close." Aanonsen shrugged and elbowed him in the shoulder. "Ah, I'm just an old Norski, don't know nothing, eh? Let's get some food into you, you're looking mighty puny."

The old codger knew plenty, he thought. But Tor wasn't putting forth any more questions, and the stew placed in front of him sent his mouth watering. He set to with gusto.

He felt eyes staring at him as he finished off a second helping and swallowed his last bit of bread.

Tor gestured to the empty bowl. "Been a while since you ate, sonny?"

His head was nodding even before he thought about the answer. Having eaten, he felt better, the ache in his stomach dulled. He sat back in his chair. "The way here isn't traveled much, or perhaps the rain washed out all the tracks."

Tor shrugged. "Ya, it could have been the rain or the wind…it's always something, not many people out here, that's for sure." His voice turned soft, "How did you find this here place, Sam?"

"Stumbled upon it. I was in the mountains after my…dispute with the marshal. The rain forced me down, too much runoff to make it over, I have to go around."

"Go around to where?"

"To Ironton."

Tor had taken a handmade wooden pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm. He stood up and went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled down a small leather pouch. Taking out the tobacco, he tamped it into the bowl and struck a match on the grainy countertop, puffing lightly until it was lit. "Ya, Ironton's a big city. If I were a man wanting to be lost, I would go there for sure."

He looked thoughtfully at Tor. A man trying to be lost or a man trying to be found. He was beginning to feel as if he placed all of his eggs-all of his hope-in one basket. He didn't have a back-up plan and it was starting to bother him.

The old man sat down again. "Did Conklin do that?" he asked, gesturing to the side of his head with the pipe.

The bullet crease at his temple, now without stitches, evidently still showed. He shook his head. "No, that was done a couple of weeks before. I just met the marshal a few days ago. He mistook me for someone else and was taking me in to stand trial. It's a long story. I'm not the man he's looking for, but I can't prove it just yet. All I need is a little time."

Tor merely nodded and blew a grey ring of smoke into the air.

As he watched Aanonsen smoke, the old man stared at the curtained window looking lost in thought. The silence was starting to get uncomfortable. "What's your story with Marshal Conklin?" he asked.

Tor stopped in mid-puff and sent him a sidelong glance. "Me and him go back a long ways. We tangled when he was a young pup, before he started as a lawman, and me fresh from the old country-I was older but no wiser."

He drew on the pipe sending another smoke ring drifting lazily to the cabin ceiling. "Tracey Conklin and me, we never seen eye to eye from the first time we meet. A long time ago, I had a claim for a place called Caprock, the prettiest damn place you ever seen, outside of home. I was part of a wagon train headed out this way, then winter came. Three or four wagons turned back, men with their tails between their legs. Day after day of wagon wheels getting caught in the mud and rain, we were lucky to make it five or six miles at a time."

"It was getting late, the passes would be closed and we were going too slow to make it in time. The captain of the train wanted to stop and wait out the season, to start again in the spring. I couldn't wait, if I did, the land would be gone. We argued bad, every day knocking heads. Me, I wanted to go on-I had everything I owned in that wagon-and meant to see it through. I was Norski after all," he shrugged, "and this snow was not so much."

Aanonsen shook his head with the remembrance of it. "Uff da, them passes was full of bad snow. I made it through, only to find the land was sold to someone else, a worthless piece of paper in my hand instead of a bill of sale. Conklin was part of the outfit guarding the land I had claimed. I wasn't gonna stand for no kid telling me what I had paid good money for a thousand miles away, wasn't mine no more. I tried to explain things to him, but I couldn't prove what I bought." He smiled wryly. "A new land with new language, and different rules-not the old country."

"I tried to take the land back, but the new owner brings out more men and I was run off. That son of a bitch Conklin finds me some years later, him now a big marshal, and said he quit that outfit afterwards-that it was bad deal. Says he's sorry what happened. A little too late I say."

Tor looked down at the table, tip-tapping his pipe against the top. "A lot of water under that bridge," he said.

He continued on. "Me and Conklin butted heads over the years since then. Mostly over hunting now. This land, too many people come here, their rules are my rules now but it don't get any easier to live. Pretty soon, I find this place and me and Jenny been here ever since." He sat back in his chair with a sigh.

Tor's cabin was quiet, except for the popping fire that made the room warm. It was only mid-day, but he stifled a big yawn.

"Sam, maybe you want to take a rest for a few hours? It would be safe here and you look done in."

He nodded and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. "I could use some sleep." He pushed his empty mug back from the edge of the table, a thought coming to him. "Do you know of a Daniel Sorensen in Ironton?"

"No, I never get to the city much, but he sounds like a good Norski," he said with a wide smile that parted his whiskers. "You better sleep while you can. I'll wake you if anyone shows up."

#-#-#-#-#

Tor stood over him, shaking his shoulder. The afternoon sunlight slanted through the window. He'd slept hard. Feeling lethargic with heavy limbs, he was unwilling to come out of the cocooned warmth of the bed.

"You better make a run for it now, sonny. That Conklin, he'll try and find you all right and I see some men down in the pass-three or four of them. I saddled a horse, he's a good'un, too. Follow the creek behind the house until it ends, Ironton is straight north from there. It'll be night in a few hours time-keep going-this horse knows his way around."

He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, blinking the cobwebs from his mind. "Those men-if it is the marshal and a posse, they'll be trouble for you," he mumbled, searching for his boots under the bed.

Tor was rummaging in a closet, his voice muffled. "You need to ride out. I can handle Tracey Conklin."

He stood up as the old man slammed the door closed. "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."

"Ya, you're right there. But you remind me of a young man I once knew, a long time ago-he couldn't prove anything, either."

It was a statement spoken with conviction. He stared into the blue eyes, so different from the frosty ones he encountered when they first met. Tor was a good man, doing what he thought was right.

"Here, take this." Aanonsen handed him a flannel coat, with tooled leather trim and a pair of lined gloves.

It was within him to refuse the generous offer, but he'd had enough of the wet and cold-more than enough-he accepted the clothing gratefully.

"There'll be snow in the high country tonight; you'll need something else besides these things." Tor opened a bureau drawer and poked around inside, pulling out a thick green woolen scarf. "This will do the trick, I think."

He reached into the pocket of his shirt. "I don't have much money to pay…"

Tor shook his head, sending his beard floating from side to side. "Your money's no good here, Sam. You keep it. I think you'll need it more than me, where you're going."

He extended a hand and grasped Aanonsen's, shaking firmly. "I'll repay you when I can."

"Ya, well, just try to stay out of the marshal's way. That will be repayment enough, I think. He's not the forgetting kind."

They walked outside to the front porch. He was reluctant to leave. He had only been there a short time but there was something between them now.

He buttoned the coat up to his neck and mounted, turning the horse to the small pathway that curved behind the house. He raised a hand to the old man standing on the front porch, puffing away on the ever-present pipe. As he left the courtyard, the warmth of the small cabin stayed with him, but uneasiness was creeping in.

He'd only known life in the past few weeks and that had been filled with pain, apprehension, and doubt-and friendship, too, if he had to admit it. But what was there before? If he was to believe what he thought about himself, there had been some time spent as a soldier. The rifle had felt familiar in his hands…was that part of his soldiering or had he been a hunter at one time? Well, now he was the hunted. If he was dangerous as Conklin claimed and Eli assumed, the law would follow and shoot to kill or try to trap him in some way. Ironton was the surer bet for him, now more than ever. He had to get there and find Sorensen.

The horse he rode on was a blend-in-the-night black dun, sure-footed and tough. It had picked up on his mood and seemed eager for the trail. He followed the creek, just as Tor had told him, and coming to the end of it he nudged the cowpony into a distance-eating lope northwards.

tbc


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Murdoch rubbed his hands together as he stepped across the clearing. They'd left Woodville that morning, right after the incident with Deputy Hamilton and the dead man in the back of the wagon. He shivered involuntarily. For one moment, one close moment, his world had tipped and threatened to collapse. The man, his face half gone, would be forever etched in his memory. And along with the sight, the feeling he had for that brief second when he thought he was looking down at the body of his son. He remembered the stark anguish on Johnny's face as the tarp was lifted, the quick shuttering of emotions as he searched for signs of his brother among the remains-then elation when he found none. His own heart had grown too full with the ache, his throat thickened and closed, allowing just a whisper of words past his lips. _It wasn't Scott._ He shivered again.

It had all been agreed on that the man was, or had been, Sam Martin. It seemed to fit. He clapped his hands together again, trying to get some warmth flowing into them. It was cold and getting colder. He tried hard not to think about Scott and what he was doing. On the trail, most likely, with little to no provisions, from what Eli could piece together with Hamilton. What worried him the most was what Mathias had told them in the deputy's office-Scott had no memory of who he was or why he was going to Ironton.

The thin trail of smoke was disappearing from the starter fire, leaving it blazing cheerfully. While Johnny worked it, Murdoch was struck by the resemblance of the setting to the first night they had spent on the trail. And despite the difference this time-knowing what had happened to Scott and where he was going-the amount of worry hadn't changed, just the type. They also had company.

Eli stood beside Johnny as he stirred the burning coals. They glowed red. Stooping, he felt the coffee pot and touched it with his hand. "The coffee is warm, almost hot. As are the beans."

"Good," Murdoch said. "We'll be eating soon enough then." He sent a covert glance to Johnny. His head was bent towards the fire, a brooding set to his jaw; his son was quiet. Too quiet. Johnny had argued against Eli joining them, until it was reasoned through that Mathias would be able to talk to Marshal Conklin about the mix-up in identities. He'd accepted him along then, but had pushed the limits of both men and horses to get them to where they were now. To his credit, Eli had followed without complaint, offering suggestions on which way to go and possible routes that Scott may have taken.

Mathias caught his eye over the fire as he poured the coffee into cups. "I think we need to clear the air."

Johnny shifted in his crouch beside the fire and sat back on a flat rock.

"All I know is that I found an injured young man, half dead from two bullet wounds. When he awoke on that second morning he couldn't tell me who he was or where he had come from. He carried an envelope in his hand marked 'Daniel Sorensen' on the front." Eli bit back a short laugh. "I insisted that we call him 'Daniel' after that-didn't have any idea he was the man Scott was supposed to meet in Ironton."

"That envelope held a letter of introduction for Scott and some contract papers," Murdoch said. "I'd met Sorensen at a Stockmen's Meeting in San Francisco last year. He wired me a few months back, interested in buying some breeding stock." It flitted through the back of his mind-perhaps if he had gone to Ironton instead, his son wouldn't be injured and missing now. He dismissed the thought just as rapidly as it came; it wasn't his fault or Scott's for that matter, this was the responsibility of men who made their way in the world by killing, and taking what they wanted.

Eli nodded and continued. "Your son tried hard to remember, some things came back readily enough. He knew he had been a soldier at one time. But other memories weren't so forthcoming." He pitched a twig into the fire. "Got him patched up and that's when I saw he had an old shoulder wound, on the left side," his voice lowered, "and then the scars on his back."

Johnny's head swung up in defense and Murdoch moved to intervene, but Eli was quicker.

"I realize you can't tell who or what a man is by what he carries on him. But your brother was a puzzle from the start, his identity pieced together wrong. I'm sorry how things turned out but I'm not so sure I would do anything different. Put yourself in my place, my own son Joe could have been at stake-I couldn't take the risk."

"As it stands now, Joe still doesn't understand. He thought I took money for turning Scott over to Marshal Conklin." He nodded to Johnny. "Much like you did." Eli flung another small bit of kindling, it hit the coals and sent up a small shower of sparks. "He wouldn't say goodbye when I left him with the neighbors."

"Sayin' you're sorry, still don't make it right," Johnny said, sending the accusatory words across the fire. He pulled his coat tighter about him. "But maybe Scott'll understand, he's that type."

"I'm not so sure. You didn't see how he looked when the marshal was there," Eli retorted.

"You don't know my brother."

"So tell me about him," he countered.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny hitched a deep breath, how to begin? That his brother was an inherently good man? Good seemed too pale of a word, and Scott was too vital. His brother was strong and he'd weathered many insults-and injuries-over the last couple of years. He exhaled slowly, allowing the fluttering inside near his belt buckle to die down.

He always thought it would be _his_ past causing trouble. Lately, it seemed that more and more of Scott's past was catching up with him. Most recently his old abuelo, Harlan Garrett, had come for a disastrous visit. Barranca had carried them both to safety that day. _Dios,_ he could only imagine what Eli had seen, for then the blood from Scott's head wound had seeped and smeared onto his own shirt front as his brother leaned back, almost gluing them together. The betrayal of grandfather to grandson had cut Scott deeply.

But before Garrett had stepped foot over the Lancer threshold, Dan Cassidy had arrived first, seeking vengeance against a terrible wrong. One that he had unknowingly done himself. The pandemonium Cassidy had created at the ranch still reverberated. Fear had nipped at his boot heels when Scott went missing from the ranch. A fear much different than he'd ever felt facing a gun-he'd been afraid of losing a brother.

This betrayal was just as bad as his grandfathers', perhaps worse. Scott's time in prison had been close held, something that his brother chose to deal with on his own terms, he had understood this. But it had been laid out in the open for all to see when Cassidy arrived. The man his brother once called friend had accused him of selling out those sixteen odd men, and it had slashed Scott to the quick.

Yet his brother had survived those attacks to his equanimity and had come out ahead in some respects, evidence to the kind of man he was.

But now, if it was all taken away, just for some damn contracts… Despite the cold, he felt a few beads of sweat trickle down his back. He swallowed and made his tongue work again. "He's a good man, Mr. Mathias, a good man…."

#-#-#-#-#

They'd sat up talking into the night, until Eli had begged off for his bedroll. It surprised Murdoch, being able to talk so easily to a stranger about Scott. He'd listened intently while Johnny described the relationship between him and his brother. He'd felt a little like an interloper-an outsider of sorts-during the conversation, but was content to eavesdrop as he cleaned up the remnants of their supper.

Johnny tipped his head towards the sleeping man, his voice low. "That Mathias is two parts stubborn."

"He's trying to help, son. I'm grateful for it. If he was any other kind of man, your brother could have easily died."

Johnny stuffed his gloved hands lower into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. "Eli doesn't bother me; he's just a means to find Scott."

"Then what is it?"

"I saw a man once, down in Sonora, at a lazy-day rodeo. Bets were runnin' wild that he couldn't sit a mean-eyed grulla for more than ten seconds. The horse buck-jumped all over that corral, sunfishing into the fence, and the cowboy was thrown head over ass against the rails. He didn't wake up until the next day and when he did, he couldn't remember who he was or what he was doin' there."

Murdoch poked at the dying fire with a stick, causing it to flare. He didn't want to ask but found himself doing so anyway. "What happened to him?"

"He never did get his memory back as far as I know. Wandered around town after that, hired out to odd jobs, eventually drifted off. He wasn't the same person after that fall, Murdoch. I don't want that to happen to Scott. Or us."

Their mutual silence, started back at Woodville, descended and took hold again. They both stared into the flames, the pops and fizzles of the crackling fire sounding uncommonly loud in the night quiet.

They'd ridden out of the makeshift camp early, with stars still in the sky, wanting to be on the trail as soon as possible. It was just shy of mid-morning when they heard gunfire.

The volley of guns stopped as they neared the plateau. There were two men lying on the sand and rocks, they waited, peering ahead. One of them swiveled, his rifle taking a bead.

Eli called out, "Easy, Mister. We're from Woodville, looking for Marshal Conklin."

The man pulled his finger from the trigger, jerking it towards the hill. "You'll find him up there. We're flushing out a murderer. Took us all the damned night to do it, but we should be finished soon."

They dismounted and fell in beside the men as another shot rang out, pinging harmlessly off a rock wall. Trigger-man spoke again over his shoulder, "For a killer, he's a pretty lousy shot."

Johnny sent a side-long glance to Murdoch. "That ain't Scott, then, unless he means to do it. Look at where those bullets are goin'. Most of those shots are over their heads." He edged over to the far side. "I'm gonna try and go around." He stopped when he heard a yell.

Looking upwards, they saw the marshal on the hilltop waving them on. Mounting, they drove hard up the trail. The men met the marshal on the other side, his eyes glittering with anger.

"Gone," he said, smacking his hand against his rifle stock, "and has been for a while." He threw a dark look to an older man with a white beard and fringe coat, who stood smiling. "Thanks to Aanonsen, here."

The marshal suddenly looked surprised seeing them. "Eli? What the hell are you doing here?" His gaze took in the rest of them. "And who are these men?"

"Trace, we've been trying to find you, that man you took from my place-his name is Scott Lancer, not Sam Martin. He's this man's son."

Conklin had the decency to look disgruntled and gnawed on his lower lip. "You mean to say," he demanded, "that we've been tracking the wrong man all this time?"

The old man let out a braying laugh and slapped his belly.

"That's exactly what happened," Eli said flatly.

The marshal turned to Murdoch. "The one that hit me and stole my horse is your son? But the wanted poster…how can that be?"

Aanonsen interrupted. "I got your horse, Conklin, in my stable. Ya, I think you'd better take him back with you, that old nag eats too much."

Before Murdoch could answer, Johnny placed a hand on his sleeve. A sense of urgency filling his voice. "You and Mathias can clear this up without me. I'm going to find Scott."

He'd been on the verge of leaving himself until he realized the marshal would need an explanation. With Eli here it wouldn't take too long to convince the sheriff that Scott had nothing to do with those murders.

Aanonsen sobered and spoke up. "Sonny, you a friend of that boy?"

Johnny nodded, working the bunched reins in his hands. "He's my brother."

"You need to go behind the barn then, there's a path there along the creek bed he took north to the city, but you're gonna have to ride that horse fast."

Murdoch looked thoughtfully at Johnny. He wasn't at all sure he could keep his son here if he tried. "It's likely Scott is already in Ironton. I'll meet you there, just be careful."

Johnny vaulted into the saddle and spurred his horse into a gallop, following the same trail his brother had taken not more than twelve hours earlier.

Conklin swiveled to take in the grinning Aanonsen. "What's your dealings with this man, Tor?"

He shrugged. "He needed a meal, he got one."

"And you decided to make sure he got clean away as well."

Tor's eyes flashed. "That boy's no killer. I could tell right off. Too bad you couldn't."

Despite the gravity of the situation, with one son still lost and another gone searching, Murdoch found himself liking this Tor Aanonsen very much, and smiled at the gruff words.

tbc


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

Coy Pearson looked around the small, mean room and shook his head. Rojelio was sprawled on the second bed, a lit cigarette dangling from his lower lip, its tip flaring red in the dim room with each suck.

"Martinez, you gotta do that? It's close enough in here without all the damn smoke."

Rojelio shrugged and crossed his booted ankles on the mussed bedspread. "You don't like it, leave."

"Maybe I will. It's your fault we're here anyhow. We should have stayed at the hotel where we were, but you had to go and lean on the clerk. It was a stupid thing to do-draws attention."

"He irritated me."

"What if Sorensen tries to find me early for something?"

Rojelio inhaled, the smoke curling out from lips as he spoke. "He won't. I know men like Sorensen; he says you need to meet him this afternoon at the bank, he means it. He lives his life by a schedule." A feral grin split his face. "Afraid of something else?"

Coy slumped and put his elbows on his knees. "We're walking a thin line here, and you know it. Sorensen may have bought into me bein' Lancer for right now, but that don't mean he's not gonna look into things. If he sends a wire somewhere…"

"You worry too much, Pearson."

Coy brought his head up. "And you. You need to leave his daughter alone. I catch you slinkin' around after her, it'll only bring trouble. There's too much law around here."

"Bah! I'm looking for money. But I'll take the girl, too, sort of a bonus, eh?"

Rojelio was still half-reclining on the bed when he leaned over and reached for him. He had a fist of shirt in his hand before Martinez grabbed his sleeve, jerking him forward, tipping him off balance. A hand flashed upwards, catching him in the Adam's apple. Hot pain flooded his consciousness as the air was pulled from his lungs. He was thrown to the floor, breathless and retching.

"I got him to give us the two thousand of good faith money, didn't I? Damn it, leave her alone. It ain't worth it," he gasped out.

"I take what I want; it would do you well to remember that, amigo." Martinez lay back down after fetching his cigarette from the floor.

Coy rose unsteadily to his feet and sat on the edge of his bed. Rojelio was out of control and had been since the day they'd killed Martin. A few days ago he wondered how it would all end; now he was sure of it.

With one hand at his neck, massaging the hurt away, he found his voice. "I'm gonna grab something to eat before I meet Sorensen. This'll all be over by tonight." One way or another, he amended.

#-#-#-#-#

Halting atop a hill, he looked down at Ironton, a broad expanse of color in a brown landscape. He tipped his head towards the late morning sun and closed his eyes, trying to find a purchase of some sort in the warmth of the rays. He inhaled deeply and tugged his coat collar a bit closer together, then heeled his horse forward.

Several side streets were carved off the main road. He took the first one jutting off the primary and walked his horse down the length of it. A large stable was to his right, its doors flung open wide. A man was sitting outside, leaning backwards on a rickety chair.

"Have you got room for one more horse?" he asked.

The man fell forward with the chair, bumping the close-by watering trough with a thump. "This ain't the livery, Mister."

"This is the first place I came to in town. It's been a long ride and I'm past being tired. How much to put up my horse?

The man cocked his head at the mention of money. "Two bits a day would do' er. You feed and water."

He nodded and led his mount to a back stall and removed his gear. He forked some hay into the manger then proceeded to brush the animal and towel off the saddle marks. Tor had been right; the dun was a good, solid horse. It had earned its feed this morning.

The man lounged against the barn wall, hands stuffed into pockets. "You need a place to sleep? I got a cot right in the back here; clean blanket, too." A healthy grin made its way to the man's face. "It'd be another two bits."

"Looks like you have a deal. Do you have any place where I can clean up a bit?"

"There's this," the man looked to the trough and water pump then back to him, gauging the response, "or there's a bath house down the way."

He turned his sights to the trough. The sun had warmed up the air but not enough to strip. His hand wandered to his inside breast pocket, feeling the few bills there. A hot bath sounded almost luxuriant right now.

"Let me guess…two-bits?" he asked.

"Naw, this is free. Now the bath house will cost ya-one whole dollar."

He gave the bills one more surreptitious feel. "Maybe I'll try the bath house," he said with a smile. "Now, is there somewhere I can get a meal?"

The man rubbed a hand over his cheek and squinted down the street. "Well, seein' as how it's almost noon, your best bet is Jane's Café. Stay away from the stew, no tellin' what kind of critters ended up in that dish."

"I'll do that." He turned to walk away.

The stable man called out to him one last time, "I'd be careful, Mister. Ironton's getting to be a wild town. The new railroad brought'em all in this past year. We had a few shootings the last couple of days."

"Thanks," he said and moved off down the street, intent on getting that bath.

The steam in the bath house managed to heat the air within the small room, but everything outside the hot water was still chilled and goosepimply. He sunk lower into the tub until his chin rested on the water, then dunked his head underneath, staying there until his breath ran out. Sputtering upwards, he raked the sodden mass of hair back from his forehead. He reached for the soap and felt a minor twinge of pain from his arm. It had healed well, but scar tissue now formed around the bullet hole, pulling it tight with each movement. It would get worked out with time. He made short work of soaping up and rinsing off. Peace came to his muscles and he relaxed, his head laid back against the high back of the tub.

He scrubbed his eyes, trying to get the grit of sleepiness out of them. He was looking for pieces of his life, and once they were found, hoping they fit together. Seemed like long odds after all. Somebody had wanted to kill him on that ridge, maybe they still did. He'd have to be careful-who's to say that the killer or killers weren't here in Ironton?

He was giving his face one last swipe with the washcloth when hunger overrode his fastidiousness. Standing up, he let the water sluice off his body. Padding over to the mirror, he hesitated a bit before looking into it. The face still mocked him. It was thinner than back at Eli's, skin taut with cheekbones riding high under light-colored scruff. He didn't feel all that comfortable wearing a beard, but left it after a bit of trimming. The bruising at his temple was gone, leaving an angry red line stretching past his ear that the whiskers covered somewhat. The laxity from the warm water ebbed out of him after seeing the mark, and tenseness returned-he was close to his enemies here, whoever they might be.

At Jane's Café, he sat staring at the gelatinous goo on his plate. He'd circumvented the stew and ended up with the roast beef, pleasantly surprised when it cost less. Now that it had arrived, he wasn't so sure he had come out ahead. At least it came with bread and the coffee-something he truly needed right now. He dug in and took a bite. It was made passable by a few slices of the soft bread and a gulp of the hot brew. He made inroads into half of it then sat back and watched the people filter in and out of the small dining room. No one had paid any attention to him. Maybe the news of Sam Martin's activities, and his description, hadn't made it this far north. He was oddly alert, on edge even-a feeling he was getting used to.

He got up to pay at the counter and left the café. On his way out, he glanced after a cowboy at the hitching rail, staring down at his horse's hoof. The muttered oaths coming from the man had him looking hard at the back of the bent figure, the voice familiar to him. Turning away, he strode down the boardwalk.

Getting halfway down the street, he looked back-the man and horse were gone. He made the corner and walked quickly across two more streets then looked back again. There were plenty of people out, but no one was following. Something had churned up inside him seeing the cowboy. Something urgent. He couldn't wrap his thoughts around why, just a singular feeling of…panic. Maybe he was overly tired, he hadn't had more than a few hours straight sleep and that was back at Aanonsen's. The jitteriness couldn't be quelled, he had to move.

Unsettled, he walked down the street, staying in the shadows of the boardwalk. He skirted the sheriff's office and saw a saloon, just opening for the day. A man in a white apron was busily sweeping off the few steps in front of it. He stopped to ask him a question.

The man the bartender pointed to had come from the mercantile and was walking towards the bank. Daniel Sorensen. He wore a black hat, notched in the front. His clothes were all cowboy. He wasn't tall, but his rolling, bowlegged gait meant business. Here was a man more at home on a horse than the street.

"You looking for a job, Mister?" asked the bartender.

He watched Sorensen make his way down the boardwalk, unsure of how to approach him. "What?"

The man stopped his sweeping and leaned on the broom. "I asked if you were looking for a job."

"I might be."

"Sorensen would be your best bet. He's got one of the larger outfits around here. A good man, too. Cuts a square deal. 'Course winter is comin', might not be much to hire on for except line shacking," he shuddered, "but why on God's green earth anyone would want that job is beyond me."

He nodded to the man. "Thanks, I'll keep that in mind."

"Sorensen!" The abrupt yell came from the direction of the livery. The man from the café was jogging down the boardwalk, hand raised in greeting.

Surprised, he eased back behind a balustrade and watched as they both went into the bank.

"Do you know that other man?" he asked.

The bartender scuffed his shoe on the wooden slats, sending a pebble flying into the street. "Hmm? Oh, he's new in town. I think his name is Lewis or some other…no, wait, his name is Lancer. That's it." He leaned on the broom again, looking at the bank's closed door. "He's a rough one, too. Not sure why Sorensen's putting up with him, must be a good deal. So long as he and his friend lay low in my saloon they're welcome, but if not," he hooked his thumb over his shoulder, "they can take a powder." He shuffled off, sweeping the dirt from underneath the saloon's doors.

A flash of firelight, the report of a rifle…something shiny. He was sure the cowboy across the street had something to do with what had happened to him.

He crossed the street, threading his way amongst the wagons and buggies and got as far as the mercantile when the door to the bank opened. He turned to the side, looking into the store window, as Sorensen and the cowboy began talking heatedly. With his head pounding, he sidled a step closer, listening in.

"You'll need to wait. The money won't be sent until Monday morning at the earliest. It's the best that can be done under the circumstances. Your father never mentioned the need for earnest money up front. I assumed the contracts would take of that all."

Lancer slapped an agitated hand against his pants leg. "I wanted to be leavin' tonight. Have to…get home and all, you know."

"If you want that money, you'll just have to stay. I sent a wire to your father anyway."

He could see Lancer's hand skim the butt of his gun in the reflection of the window.

"Oh?" the cowboy asked.

"Yes, just telling him that you had finally arrived, I thought it was for the best."

A party of three jostled him from behind and he lost track of the conversation. When he turned back again, Sorensen was alone, Lancer had moved off.

When the rancher moved in his direction, he walked inside the storeroom. Sorensen happened to follow, calling out to the clerk.

"Andy, I forgot to add something to that list. I'll need a half-keg of molasses. My wife would never forgive me if I'd left town without it."

"I'll add the sweetening to the list, Mr. Sorensen."

It was now or never. He stepped in front of the rancher as the man turned to leave and bumped his arm. "Sorry, Sir, I didn't see you."

His eyes captured Sorensen's; they registered annoyance but no fear…and no recognition. He had a feeling of being sized up, just as one man would do to another. Sorensen was wondering who he was.

"Do I know you?" the rancher asked, a puzzled look on his face.

The envelope felt suddenly large in his pocket. "I don't believe so," he brought the worn paper out, "but I have this."

Sorensen took it, giving a cursory look to its inside. He shrugged and handed it back. "It's not mine. But I am Daniel Sorensen. What can I do for you?"

What little knowledge he had of himself shifted and crumpled at his feet as disappointment rolled through him. The rancher didn't know him. It seemed his basket was empty after all.

"Are you looking for a job? It's winter, there's not much work." The man looked him over, studying closely. "But maybe we can find something. If you want a job, ride out to the ranch tomorrow or the next day and talk with my foreman. Anyone can give you directions."

He nodded dumbly and watched the man file past him. Nothing about the rancher was familiar to him, but the man he was talking to-Lancer-was a different story. He needed to find him. His stomach fluttered once then settled into a hard ball of resolve.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny crossed over the quiet street from the livery to the hotel. Gonna wake up two folks tonight, although the livery man was happy enough to see his money. The sign in the window read "The Holiday Hotel". If only, he thought. It was barely lit with just one lantern in the front lobby. He went to the desk, rang the bell and waited.

A shuffling noise was heard then the door behind the counter opened, showing a man with his nightshirt tucked halfway into his jeans, a wide yawn on his scruffy face.

"What do you want, Mister?"

"I'm looking for someone."

"Did you try the saloon?"

Johnny dipped his head. "Not yet."

The man, now fully awake, clasped his hands over his ample belly. "Unless, you're looking for a room, you're barkin' up the wrong tree."

"All right. I'll take a room. And some information."

The clerk reached under the desk and brought out the sign-in book. True to his word, he asked, "What's his name?"

He leaned on the counter feeling the weight of his emotions-frustration, worry and sheer tiredness-bearing him down.

"I'm hoping that he'd be using 'Scott Lancer' but I'm not so sure…"

The clerk stopped in mid-yawn. "Lancer? He was here a couple of days ago." He cocked a head towards Johnny. "You any relation?"

"I'm his brother. And he couldn't have been here for a couple of days already; I've been trailing him up from the south."

"All I know is that Lancer didn't pay before he and his friend were thrown out. I'm guessing since you're his brother and all, you wouldn't mind making good on what he owed."

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On what this Scott Lancer looked liked."

"Huh? What game are you tryin' to pull, Mister?"

"Just tell me what he looked like."

"Well, he's about your height. Hair's a little lighter, more a dark brown. Has these green eyes, was always looking around. Like he was nervous, you know?"

"That's not my brother, on any count." He tipped his hat upwards. "This friend of his, was he a Mexican?"

The clerk looked puzzled. "Yeah, mean fella, too. Came in drunk and threatened the day clerk, manager had to throw' em both out. You know him?"

He shook his head. "Do you know where they went?"

"Nah, plenty of new boarding houses hereabouts and those bums were tossed out on my day off. Work all week and nothing happens, I take one day off and we get a customer pullin' his gun and threatening to shoot up the place. What's the world coming to? Criminals that's what they were all right. And if they ain't, they got more than you interested in them."

He stared at the desk clerk. "Who else has been asking about them?"

"There was a man in here, earlier today. I've been having to cover since the day clerk quit…"

"Describe him to me."

"Ain't you the one hellbent on knowing. Didn't give a name. He's taller than you, thin, blond hair and beard. Looked a little ragged around the edges. I remember him, he had a funny way of talking-almost proper-like-didn't fit in with the way he looked." He rolled his eyes and sighed. "But you meet all kinds out here. Seemed real disappointed when I told' im they'd left."

He took a breath, fingers fiddling with his bracelet. He exhaled, trying to keep his voice steady. "Do you know where this man went?"

The clerk straightened his shoulders. "Do I look like I have time to check on every Tom, Dick and Harry that stops by? And I got better things to do-like sleep-than stand around jabbering to you."

He sagged at the counter. "That room…it'll need to have a couple of beds; I'm expecting my father to be riding in tomorrow late."

"Uh-huh." The clerk pinned him with a dark look. "I got a room but I'll need payment in advance. And, Mister, you aren't the drinking kind are you?"

He shook his head and dug into his pocket for the money.

tbc


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

Ironton had exactly three saloons, two banks, one railroad and too many other stores to count. There was even a whoop-de-do library he'd visited, located next to a school in the better part of town. Johnny walked outside and leaned against the railing in front of the mercantile. It was like trailing a gnat in a windstorm. Where _was_ Scott? Maybe he'd gone about this the wrong way…he'd been thinking like his brother, looking for him in the places Scott would go. Only Scott didn't know who he was. He glanced to his left; Murdoch should be riding in any time now. And he wouldn't have any news for him-good or bad. He squinted at the afternoon sun, for a big city with a lot of people it seemed awful lonely.

Johnny looked across the street and saw the glow of a cigarette in a man's cupped hand amidst the bustle of cowboys and vendors. The cold breeze was making it hard to keep lit. He watched the man struggle with it for a few moments then go into the saloon. Soon after Johnny turned away and walked down the boardwalk.

He was just about to step inside the livery again when a flash of color in the crowd caught his eye. He sucked in a breath. The man was hatless and wore a plaid coat, but even at a distance Johnny could see the straight carriage and comfortable movement of shoulders and arms. Scott was a man who was easy to pick out of a crowd.

He started forward, winding his way around men and women of all types, keeping his eye on Scott. So intent on getting to his brother, he didn't see a man stepping into his way from the street, loaded with packages. They collided and tumbled down together. He popped up, shoving a bowler hat off his lap and back onto the stranger's head. Running now, his boots made quick thuds on the boardwalk, spurs accompanying in tune.

"Scott! Hey, Scott!"

His brother jerked his head around. His eyes were searching, narrowed against the glint of the sun, then opened widely upon seeing him. Johnny raised his hand in greeting and couldn't help the smile sliding onto his face.

Scott spun and ran.

Shock. Panic. It was all written across Scott's face. Those thoughts flashed through his mind as he pounded down the street in hot pursuit.

Johnny made a quick turn down an alley between a dress shop and the granary. It was only when he had gotten halfway down that he realized his brother had disappeared. He trotted to the rear, the area behind the granary was littered with barrels and sacking materials. A dustbin hugged the back of the other shop. He glanced to the woods beyond the stores, wondering if Scott had made it to them, but a scraping noise from behind told him otherwise.

Aside from the odd coat, his clothes were stained and wrinkled, like they'd been slept in several times. The scruffy beard, the shadowed eyes of someone hunted-he didn't wear it well-but the fear that had shone there before was gone. Scott held a Colt waist high, the hammer making a dull sound as a round was chambered.

Johnny swallowed against a rising tide of anguish. "Hey, brother. We've been trying to find you for the longest time," he said in a low, desperate voice.

Scott's eyes flicked to him at the words, then he moved closer, shortening the space between them. "I know you," he said, hot anger singeing his words, "you were there, in my camp, along with the other man."

He was near enough that Johnny could almost reach out and touch the pistol pointed at his gut. "That wasn't me; you have to believe it, Scott. I'm your brother. It's me, Johnny." He saw a brief flicker of indecision cross the troubled face. He wasn't sure if Scott would believe him, but if he didn't the gun had to be taken away. His muscles tensed and his raised hands curled into loose fists.

A female outcry from the back of the dress shop surprised them both. Johnny lunged for the pistol, the impact drawing them against stacked crates. His arms went around Scott and bore him against the wood, splintering the side and top. Gun wavering, Scott rolled slightly, putting some space between them.

Johnny reasoned his brother wouldn't give up the fight easily, and as he looked into Scott's eyes, he knew he was right. He saw a balled fist coming and ducked, but not fast enough. The side clip to the jaw jolted him back, sending a shower of white lights through his vision. He twisted aside and reached out to grab Scott's leg, heaving hard, throwing them both off balance. He stepped back in, grappling for the gun.

It bounced against his ribs; those big hands of Scott's seemed to be everywhere-pounding, pushing and pulling. He grunted as the barrel jutted into him a second time.

Then his ears rocked with the sudden explosion.

Immediate pain dropped him to the ground and he tasted dirt in his mouth. His brain began to spin queerly, voices floated to him from the both ends of the alley, closing in tightly. A woman cried out again and a man shouted. He heard thumps and thuds of fists against flesh and cloth ripping.

People had gathered around, staring in puzzlement and confusion. Well-meaning though they were, he pushed at them, but they crowded him anyway, eager to see what happened. Before his view was completely cut off, he saw Scott-hunched over in the green and blue plaid coat-bulling his way out of the clutching throng and into the woods.

He struggled to stand. "Stop!" he yelled, more to the men who were giving chase than to his brother. He put a hand to his side and it came away bloodied. "Just stop," he said wearily, "it's all right." Thankful for the alley wall-his energy seemed to have fled in the past few minutes-he leaned in, staring at the patch of trees.

#-#-#-#-#

The sheriff's breath, a fetid mix of tobacco and chilies, wafted over to Johnny. "Lemme see where he got plugged, Doc."

Dr. Powell turned a stern eye to the lawman, his glasses making a slide down his thin nose. "Harold, I told you to stay out of my exam room until I get finished, then you can talk to the young man."

Sheriff Marks looked supremely disappointed. "All right, but then I want the full story of why we aren't gonna press charges," he said, clumping his way out to the waiting room.

Powell yelled over his shoulder, "And close the door!"

The doctor eyed him somewhat dubiously from his stance near his bandage drawer. "So why aren't you going to press charges? Someone shot you; I think the uppermost thing to do would be to find the man that did it."

Johnny stretched out his side and grimaced. "I already know the man that did it."

"That should make it quite a bit easier to find him then, wouldn't it?"

He hunched over again, clasping the dressing against his ribs. "Not really…he's my brother."

A bushy white eyebrow was raised at his confession, but no more questions were asked. The doctor clucked appreciatively over his discomfort, then slapped cold salve over the few stitches he had placed.

He gasped from the fire erupting in his side.

A voice echoed in from the anteroom. "Where's my son?"

The doctor turned to his patient sitting on the exam table. "You're a popular man, Mr. Lancer."

Johnny smiled through gritted teeth. "I can be Doc, I can be."

There was a strident rap and moments later the door burst open. Murdoch stood in the doorway. "Johnny! The man from the hotel said you'd been shot."

The physician, despite the disadvantage of being a foot shorter than his father, glared at Murdoch before he had a chance to step over the threshold. "I'm trying to take care of this man, if you would please?"

Murdoch looked over the doctor's head, worry lines etched across his forehead.

Johnny nodded. "I'm all right." His father took a step in but the doctor pointedly blocked it.

"Wait outside," the physician said, jabbing a finger for emphasis at the sheriff who was sitting beside the outer door.

Murdoch glared back and stood his ground.

The doctor muttered something under his breath and moved to the side.

"It's just a crease, Murdoch."

"How did it happen?" His long fingers were already hooking under the pad to see the damage.

Johnny pushed his hands away and looked at him through dark bangs that had fallen across his eyes. "I saw Scott."

Murdoch's eyebrows came together in dismay.

"Aw, Murdoch, Scott didn't know who I was. He thought I was the man who robbed him."

"And he…shot you?"

"We were in an alley, he was holding a gun and I tried to take it away. We fought, it went off…" His head dipped down. "I guess this answers my question."

"What?"

"I was wondering if maybe Scott would recognize me. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought if he could just see me, it would be all right." Johnny shook his head. "He doesn't know me."

The doctor finished wrapping the bandage around Johnny's torso. "Your brother has a problem with his memory?"

Murdoch spoke up. "Scott was badly injured a few weeks ago-a head wound-now he can't remember who he is."

The doctor was thoughtful. "Amnesia can take a lot of forms, generally the longer it lasts, the harder it is to get the memory back again. And you have to understand; sometimes the memory doesn't come back at all."

"We have to find him and try. And the one man he does know is here in Ironton."

"Eli came with you?" Johnny asked.

Murdoch nodded.

Johnny edged off the table and reached for his shirt. "There's two ways I figure this could go, either Scott will take off-thinking he killed me-and the law is after him, or he'll go underground and try to find the men who hurt him in the first place."

Murdoch was silent for a few moments. "I think Scott came here for something and he won't stop until he finds it."

Johnny captured Murdoch's look. "Yeah," he said, "or until it finds _him_."

The doctor washed and dried his hands then reached into a cabinet and pulled out a jar. "Rub some of this onto the wound for the next few days; the bandage can come off tomorrow. Those stitches will need to come out in five days or so." He looked up at Murdoch. "And when you find your other son, bring him in and I'll see what I can do."

They'd finished up with the sheriff quickly, once Marks determined that there would be no charges filed. The lawman strode back to his office, promising to send out a deputy to look around town. Johnny didn't have much faith in the law finding his brother. Scott had been able to keep hidden this long, and it was a sure bet he wouldn't be advertising where he was now-not after the shooting. He glanced down the boardwalk.

The coolness of the day brushed against his face while he stood outside the doctor's office. "We'll find him again," his father said, in a voice not yet sure. Murdoch reached out to touch his shoulder, the warmth of his fingers settling down through the rough fabric of his coat to his arm. "In the meantime, we'd better get you back to the hotel to rest."

He was shaking his head before the sentence was finished, but was saved from a potentially embarrassing epithet by a loud voice from the street.

"Murdoch? What are you doing here?" Sorensen asked. "I sent a telegram to you just a couple of days ago. Your son Scott is here in Ironton."

"You've seen him?"

"He finally showed up, a little worse for wear, out at the ranch. Said his horse threw a shoe and he had to wait on the blacksmith."

"Mr. Sorensen, did Scott have a vaquero with him?" Johnny asked.

Sorensen looked at him with a puzzled frown.

"Dan, this is Johnny," said Murdoch.

The man's face brightened. "Oh, your other son…I should have realized," he offered up a hand to shake, "your father talked quite a bit at the Cattlemen's Association about the both of you." The rancher pushed his hat back from his forehead. "I have to tell you though, Murdoch, from the way you described Scott in San Francisco, I was expecting someone a bit different."

"As to your question, Scott didn't have anyone else with him. I was just bringing the money over to him; the bank draft came in early."

"What money?" Murdoch asked.

"The earnest money, Scott said he needed two thousand dollars up front, before the contracts were signed."

Johnny and Murdoch shared a look. "Dan, the man who showed up here in Ironton with the contract papers is passing himself off as my son, looking to extort money from you."

"He had the papers, signed by you."

Murdoch nodded. "They were stolen. The man you know as Scott is most likely a murderer named Pearson. He might be traveling with another man, a Mexican, named Martinez. They almost killed my son on the trail."

Sorensen shook his head. "What? We were to meet later this afternoon, but since the draft came in, I was taking it to him at his hotel."

Johnny spoke up. "Pearson isn't there anymore-he was thrown out a day or so ago," he turned to look at his father, "but if he's expectin' money then he's still around somewhere. And his friend, too."

Murdoch scowled. "I think we'd better talk to the sheriff again and do some searching of our own."

#-#-#-#-#

Pearson looked into the dim saloon and scanned its customers. Evening was coming on and things were just starting to come alive. He knew Martinez was here somewhere-cards were a pull for him-but where, he didn't exactly know. For that matter Rojelio could even be upstairs, visiting the social end of the bar's business. Martinez liked nothing better than a good whore and a good game of cards, not necessarily in that order. He gnawed on his lip, the thought of leaving him here and getting the hell out of Ironton had crossed his mind more than once. If he didn't think-nix that- _know_ Martinez would follow him and put that pig-sticker in his gut, he'd of left Ironton the very minute he laid eyes on Lancer. It was too dicey, this being out in the open trying to pass himself off as someone else.

He sucked his teeth and rocked back on his heels, Lancer was alive after all…could this day get any worse? He'd seen him in the alley scuffling with that mestizo. Lancer even shot the bastard-he had nerve, he'd concede that much. He'd sized up the man wrong, taking him for some stupid rancher. He shook his head. Rojelio and him sure knew how to pick' em. First Sam, then Scott Lancer, at least he knew Martin was for sure dead, the body hid up near Woodville.

Something didn't sit right with the whole situation, though. He could have sworn Lancer looked him straight in the eye when he was trying to break free from the crowd in the alley. It looked like the man recognized him...but something was still wrong. He had to wonder about that.

The sound of a bottle crashing to the floor took his attention to a small table in the back. Martinez-the man didn't know how to play nice. He followed the sound of curses, in Spanish and English, as they rent the air.

The cowboy at the table leaped to his feet, shouting, "You sonofabitch! You're cheatin'."

Pearson hot-footed it over to Martinez and laid a hand on the Mexican's arm. "C'mon, you know this ain't worth it and we got trouble."

The glower dropped off Martinez's face to be replaced by something much more dangerous-a gleaming smile. He got up and nodded to the hapless cowboy across the table. "We will meet again, when I have more time."

Pearson leaned over the table and separated the money out, glancing at the cowboy-who nodded and picked up his portion.

They moved out of the saloon and walked to the corner of the boardwalk. Rojelio stopped. "Don't interrupt my business-ever again."

"Martinez, would you get your back down? We got problems and you're here pissin' about twenty dollars."

"What problem is more important than money?"

"The problem is that Lancer is alive, and here-in Ironton."

The Mexican's face darkened. "Where?"

"I don't know where. I tried following him but there were too many people around. It was him, though. And I don't know if he got to Sorensen…but I wouldn't bet my last dollar on it. He's got a little problem of his own. Saw him shoot down a man in an alley."

Rojelio's eyes widened a bit. "So the lion has teeth, eh?" He shrugged. "No matter, we'll find him and finish him off, then get the money from Sorensen." He pushed off the boardwalk to cross the street.

Pearson stared at Martinez's back. It was all well and good prattling on about killing Lancer, but somehow he didn't think it would be that easy trying to kill him a second time.

tbc


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

He dropped to the cot in the barn storeroom, the gun clutched awkwardly in his chilled fingers. Cold seeped through him, but he knew it was the attack and not the temperature of the evening air that made his hand shake. The suddenness of it all, more than the force of it, left him dazed. He hadn't meant for it to happen this way, he'd been forced into the fight.

Then he'd shot the man.

True enough, they'd both been wrestling for the pistol, but it had been his finger on the trigger. His anger had dissipated long ago. There was no pleasure taken from the shooting, just finality. Yet he didn't know if the man had lived or died.

He released his grip and the weapon fell to the blanket, bounced once and lay still.

The silence in the barn was more unnerving than the rumbles of the men in the alley. He worried a torn pocket on his coat-finally pulling it all the way off-and licked the blood from the broken flesh at his lower lip. The crowd had turned on him. Tearing away from their fists, he'd run without stopping. The law would be waiting for him in the darkness, and, he would have to assume, Lancer. He'd seen him in the alley after the shooting, his face hidden amongst the others who had tried to stop him from escaping.

His thoughts circled around to Sorensen-he was no help-and now only Lancer was left. Tor's dun was waiting, he should ride out now, but Lancer had to have some answers about his identity.

His head swam. He leaned back and closed his eyes. That man's voice-he'd heard it somewhere before-calling him… _Scott_? It wasn't a name that was usual, not like John or James, and it wasn't a name that someone could come up with quickly.

The shock when the gun went off, the heavy weight of him against his leg as he fell to the dirt. He shook his head to scatter the images. Something felt wrong. The man who chased him into the alley-the one wearing the conchos-he _was_ the same man as on the ridge, wasn't he?

#-#-#-#-#

It was past seven o'clock when he ventured from the stable. Few people were out and those that were hustled to their destinations, trying to stay one step ahead of the cold. He flipped up the collar on his coat. Light spilled out from a saloon door and its windows. Distant tin-panny sounds from a piano made their way to the boardwalk. The mercantile was closed, as were most of the other shops.

The doctor's office was dark except for a single inside light. He itched to knock on the door and see what had happened to the man from the alley, but couldn't risk it. Two older boys walked down the street, stopping to light the large post lights at each of the main intersections.

A city as big as Ironton always had an underbelly and that's where he was going now. A part of town where there were no lanterns to be lit. He'd asked the man at the stable about places to go where someone might find entertainment, outside the prying eyes of the law. After furnishing a few coins, he'd been given the information with a wink and knowing grin.

It was just about the last of the money he had taken from Conklin. Once he found Lancer-if he found him-he had two choices. Stay in Ironton and find a job, or ride out. The first choice didn't seem plausible, not with the shooting. And he wasn't certain of just what he would do when he found Lancer. All he wanted were some answers as to who he was and where he had come from.

He paused and found himself in front of a two-story boarding house. He walked in on a whim, the door jingling. Going up to the tall desk he saw an arm-human-draped over the top, its hand clutching the front rim, the rest disappearing behind the counter. It was beefy, weathered a deep brown with fat fingers and stubbed nails, surrounded by a startlingly blue ruffled sleeve. Disconcerted, he looked around the room and found nothing out of the ordinary. He concentrated on the arm again, wondering if it was attached to anything else. As he looked, the fingers curled into a tighter grip and a soft grunt was heard from behind the desk. Telling himself that he was a fool, he reached over the counter and hauled upwards.

"Goddamn it to hell! Leggo of me, ya rooster!"

The arm began to thrash and yanked with surprising force, pulling him off his feet. He let go and stumbled backwards. She was almost as tall as he was. He felt his mouth gape and snapped it shut. Almost as tall and outweighed by a good fifty to sixty pounds. Curly hair tied back with a piece of twine framed a hard, florid face and a tight mouth, currently spewing expletives at him. She'd brought a carbine up with her and slapped it on the desk top. One hand wrapped possessively around the handle of the gun, the other on her generous hip.

"Well?"

He swallowed a few times, trying to find a voice. She was a force of nature. He'd of taken off his hat if he'd had one.

"I'm sorry Ma'am…I didn't realize…"

"Realize what?" she thundered.

He straightened and could still see eye to eye with her. The smell of cheap whiskey vied with the musty odor of the parlor; it won out and wafted over him, filling his nostrils. He motioned to the top of the counter. "Realize there was something attached to the arm."

She stared at him with a single grey eye, the other scrunched shut. A semblance of a smile crept onto her face and she let out a chuckle. Reaching across the counter, she slapped him on the arm, making him reach for the rim of the desk to steady himself.

"Ain't that somethin'! You tryin' to help old Bella out. Not many's a man would do that." She sniffed. "'Sides, I can take care of myself. "'Preciate it just the same, Mister."

She pulled up. "Say, whaddya want anyway?"

He took a step back. "I'm looking for a man."

She leaned her bulk on the counter, allowing him an ample view of her barely contained breasts. He shot his eyes sideways.

"Yessir, I like you. You talk real smooth and I bet under that fuzz you're real pretty. Yup, I like' em tall, lean and pretty. You got a girl somewheres?"

Surprised, he shook his head.

Bella's eyes narrowed. "You ain't one of them funny men, are ya?"

"No…no! I've been looking for a man named Lancer."

She stood up straight. "That sonofabitch and his pal got drunk the other day and almost wrecked my room. Had to set them straight-I'm not trudging up and down them stairs everyday just to take care of the likes of them two."

He looked beyond Bella and saw a room key in every cubbyhole except for thirteen and twenty-five. "He's gone then?"

She moved in front of his field of vision. "I didn't say that. A payin' customer is hard to find nowadays."

"What room is he in?"

She smiled. "I didn't say that, neither."

"I need to find him."

"Huh. You got any money?"

He greeted her words with silence.

She peered at him and licked her lips. "Ain't got none, eh? Well, now there's other ways of makin' payments." She leaned on the counter again and grabbed his hand, the rough pads of her fingertips rubbing his wrist. "You treat me right and I could be persuaded to give you that information you're lookin' for."

Leaning in, he placed his other hand on top of hers and looked into her eyes, hemming in a choke from her hundred-proof breath. "I think I can manage something, Bella." He squeezed her hand for good measure. "But what do you say we have a drink first?"

She brought out a small brown flask from underneath the desk top and waved it in his face, smiling gleefully.

"Isn't there something better?"

Bella frowned. "Higher class? What's the matter; this ain't good enough for ya?"

"I was thinking that a lady such as yourself should have something of quality to drink."

"Huh." She peered at the bottle in her hands. "I 'spect you're right about that…this rotgut will spoil your insides. What's your name anyway?"

"Sam."

She petted his hand. "You wait right here, Sam. I got somethin' better in the back room. Hell, I'll even get some glasses. We'll have ourselves a regular old party, then…" She grinned and waggled her eyebrows at him. "Watch the desk for me, honey." She trundled off.

He took the stairs two at a time, the carbine in hand. Two rooms, two chances before Bella made it back. He chose thirteen and knocked. A mustachioed man opened the door; he apologized and moved down the hallway. Number twenty-five stood waiting.

He knocked, this time there was no answer. The door wasn't fitted properly and opened easily. He stepped inside and closed it shut, waiting until his eyes became accustomed to the darkness. The room held two thin beds, each one hugging a wall. It was nondescript except for the faint smell of stale tobacco, a few bottles upended on a small table and clothes lying on the floor and thrown over a chair back. Their pockets held nothing of use-no papers or money. He heard heavy footsteps and a female voice, realizing Bella was lumbering up the staircase.

Unlatching the window, he maneuvered out to the balcony and dropped the carbine down to the ground. He soon followed with a teeth-jarring thump to the dirt. Picking up Bella's gun, he flung it to the alley then loped off down the street, hearing her howling out of the second-story window.

He walked through the darkened streets, until he saw a figure exiting an empty-looking place, a single light shining out through a small window above the door. It had to be one of the gambling rooms the stable man had told him about. Turning to the side, the man was profiled in moonlight-Lancer! He hesitated and listened, looking around. Seeing nothing, he followed the man down the slatted boardwalk, finally approaching him from behind.

"I've seen you before," he said.

Lancer whipped around, his hand going for the gun on his right hip.

He knocked the hand away with his own pistol. "I've seen you before, who are you?" Ignoring the question, Lancer tried to go around him but he put out a hand to stop him, laying it on the man's arm. Lancer jerked back, a frown replacing the look of surprise.

He was conscious of a faint stirring in the darkness. His instincts were telling him to move.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny looked upwards. She was the biggest woman he'd ever seen. And drunk, too. Murdoch stood in awe, but had managed to get his wits about him enough to go to the counter.

"Miss…I'm looking for a man."

She responded by slapping her palm down on the desk so hard, it moved her half-empty bottle a good inch. "Oh! Ain't we all, Mister?"

All three of them stepped backwards. Eli's eyebrows shot to the top of his head.

Chagrined, Murdoch turned around and jerked his head towards the door. "I don't think we'll get any information here," he muttered under his breath.

The woman started to wail. "Oh Sam, we coulda had such a good time. Why'd ya have to run out on me like that?"

Eli spoke up. "Miss, you talked to someone named Sam?"

She nodded, adding, "That sonofabitch ran out on me. We coulda had a party just him and me." She winked and lost her balance, leaning heavily against the desk. "Yup-tall and skinny and oh, so pretty. Yessir, we coulda had ourselves a time!"

They exchanged looks.

"Where did Sam go, Miss?" asked Murdoch.

She teared up and sniffed. "Off the second floor balcony, headin' north."

They heard faint gunshots rattling in from the street. The echoes died away, leaving only silence.

#-#-#-#-#

Something or someone was creeping along in the blackness. He swiveled to his left just as a knife whistled thru the air; it skimmed his gun hand, and he dropped the pistol. Lancer reared back, a fist cocked. He ducked and fell to his knees, struggling to reach his gun. The man kicked out with his foot and sent it scuttling to the side. He bounced upwards and threw a roundhouse into Lancer's mid-section, doubling him over.

"Martinez!" Lancer cried out.

A silhouette became solid as a second man stepped out, a gun in hand. It belched fire a second later. The bullet whisked past his face and plowed into the wooden strut beside him. He knocked into Lancer, bowling him over, and dove for his gun, finding it jutted up against the storefront. He started for the street and into the shadows between buildings, pinging bullets peppering the ground beside him. He had no idea where he was going; he just knew he had to escape.

He paused, hearing faint footfalls. Pictures of another night crossed through his mind. Of running full tilt in the woods, trying to get away. They'd wanted him dead back then, just like now.

He ran on, his breath coming out in clouds of white vapor, until he stumbled over a railroad tie at the backend of a building. Looking to his left, the steel rails marched off into the night, coated in gleaming shimmers from the moonlight. To his right stood a lightless shack, scattered outhouses and a corral, beyond them stood the depot.

He waded through hip length pampas grass, brushed against the outbuilding, and tried the door. It swung open on a rusty hinge. He hurried inside and took his gun out of the holster, the combination of sweat and blood making the handle slippery. A shrill whistle blew in the distance and he raised his head in surprise. It dawned on him that a train was coming.

A moment later he heard running feet and the sound of someone swearing. He flipped the lock on the door and held his breath. The steps came closer; a hand tried the door, jiggling the knob. Someone-it must have been Lancer-said, in a low voice, "It's locked, but there's fresh blood on the door. Maybe he went over the tracks." And then they were gone.

He wobbled against the planked wall, his forehead damp with perspiration. Looking around the small room, he saw that it was completely bare. He glanced down at the wound to his hand. Tacky blood was drying stiff on his coat cuff. It was the least of his worries, they would return to the shack when they couldn't find him. He eased the door open.

He maneuvered his body into the grass and looked behind him. Nobody was there. He got up to a semi-crouch and picked his way along the raised cinder track of the rails. The whistle blew again, this time closer. The ground beneath his feet trembled and the train came out of the darkness with a rush of wind and noise. The full glare of its headlight silhouetted him against the night sky before he could drop to the ground.

An accented voice rose above the railroad din. "Señor, you are a most difficult man to kill." He started. The voice was full of malevolence-so unlike the one from the alley-but he remembered it fully, from the first time he heard it, by his campfire. God help him, he'd shot the wrong man.

He backed deeper into the grass, but could still hear the voice over the clacking of the rails.

"…it's a waste of time, this hiding. You know I will find you…it will be all over soon."

Martinez was heading right for him, the moonlight bouncing off the pistol in his hand. It would only be a moment before he was upon him. There was a sudden scurry in the grass a few yards away, the man turned and fired, sending a rabbit scurrying for cover. He twisted about from where he laid, and launched himself. They both went down in a flurry of arms and legs, rolling dangerously close to the rails and speeding boxcars.

He scrambled up first and went at the man with a closed fist. It hit solidly against the man's jaw and nose, bouncing his head backwards. He crumpled to a heap. A booted foot lashed out in a vicious kick and caught him behind the knee, tossing him up then driving him down to the ground. He rolled and came to his feet, hooking a swift right into the man's mid-section. The Mexican shook it off and came at him with a flurry of shorter punches that were hard to avoid. He followed them with a left hook, bouncing it off the man's breastbone. Martinez staggered away.

The force of the wind from the speeding train made him waver a bit on unsteady legs. He tapped his holster, the gun was missing-it had been lost sometime during the fight.

Martinez crouched; passing a blade from his left hand to his right. A steady stream of blood came from his broken nose, but a lethal smile shone on his face just the same.

He knew he couldn't stand up against the knife. He stumbled back towards the moving train, more so than what he needed. Sensing an advantage, Martinez roared and thrust the knife as he charged.

He side-stepped as the knife came down in a sweeping arc, ripping his coat sleeve from shoulder to elbow. He caught the man's arm on the upswing and twisted, hearing the crack of bone snapping. Bending from the waist, he grunted and flipped Martinez towards the track-his scream rose above the loud noise of the train, then stopped abruptly.

Chest heaving, he swiped at his sweaty face and rose to his feet. Martinez lay still-his body twisted into a garish angle alongside the tracks. He'd fallen under the wheels of the train.

His pistol lay on the ground a few yards away. The cars were bumping and lurching now, grinding to a stop at the depot. The train offered an escape, if he could reach it in time. Feeling the rail cinders beneath his feet, he stretched out his long legs and made for the space between the barn and corral.

He approached the barn door when it swung open from the inside, bouncing back on its hinges. Lancer stepped out, his pistol held high. He tipped his head towards the tracks and grinned.

"Real nice of you to help me out with Martinez like that. He was gonna have to die anyway; you saved me some time." The smile disappeared. "Now drop that gun."

He looked at the pistol in his hand and smiled back. "Why don't you take it?"

The cowboy flicked his hat back off his forehead. "Huh. It seemed easy enough to do the first time. Course Martinez was there to help some. You were for fun, with your fancy clothes and that fine horse; we knew you had to have money." He frowned. "Thought we left you for dead, though."

He reached inside his pocket and brought out some folded papers. "But these were gonna make it all worthwhile, if we could pull it off. And we almost did, until you showed up again."

"Naw, Lancer, it's just not your lucky day." He dropped the papers. "And mine, either, now. You cost me two thousand dollars."

He inhaled sharply. The man had called him "Lancer". "What's your name?" he asked, then shrugged. "I'm going to die anyway, right?"

The man cocked an eye at him and waved his gun. "Pearson, Coy Pearson and that fellow you just killed over there was Rojelio Martinez. But I 'spect there won't be any weepin' relatives for that bastard."

"Or for you, I'd be willing to bet." The drawl came from the side of the corral and was accompanied by the sound of a pistol being cocked.

Pearson froze at the words. His face softened and he smiled. "Oh now friend, I got me a real criminal here. I could use your help."

The man took a step forward. "I'm no friend of yours. And my brother is no criminal."

Pearson spun, trying to fan his gun. Two shots rang out from two different angles before he could touch the hammer, one catching him high in the chest, the other straight through his heart. He was driven back a bit, dead before hitting the ground, a dark stain spreading across his coat.

His brain was a dizzy buzzing. He swayed towards the man who had helped him shoot Pearson. He was the one from the alley-his brother supposedly-alive after all. But the man looked worried as he re-holstered his gun, the disquiet plain upon his face.

His voice came out dry. "I'm sorry for the shooting."

The man grinned. "The way I see it, you pulled up too high. But it still gets the job done."

He shook his head. "No…in Ironton...the alley." The train whistled. It was pulling out of the depot. He took a few steps towards the humming rails, stopped and regarded the man. "I'm sorry. I thought you were…someone else." He needed time to think, to remember. He turned on his heel and started in a jog for the steam engine.

The stranger yelled out after him. "Scott, Eli will be here in a few minutes. He's here, along with Murdoch," his head dipped then rose, "our father. I'm Johnny, remember?"

The words stopped him in his tracks. Eli was here with his father?

The man was saying something else but the noise in his head combined with the back blast from the train's engines made it too loud for him to hear. He had no idea who Murdoch or Johnny Lancer was, but he was curious to see what they knew about him.

tbc


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

The hotel room was much too confining with all of them in it. Scott glanced at the closed door for the second time in as many minutes. Murdoch had taken it upon himself to cleanse the knife wound on his hand and bandage it. Such a small gesture, it had made him self-conscious, only adding to the tension he felt roiling inside. Everything was on point, edges sharp. How long had it been since he'd been able to let his guard down? Weeks…a month? This was what he had wanted, people who knew of him—a family—so why did he feel an overwhelming urge to bolt for the door?

It didn't help they were staring at him. Johnny's eyes were shuttered, wary. His nervousness was played out by the continual tapping of a hand against his bent thigh as he leaned against the wall. His father's look was more optimistic, happy even. He'd felt the warm rush of emotions through Murdoch's lingering touch on his arm while he had bandaged his hand, and through the—albeit mostly unwelcome—brush of fingers against the crease at his temple. And Eli…Eli sat with elbows on knees, hands clasped together, unwilling to meet his look.

The joy of finding someone who knew him was tempered by frank reality. He still didn't know these people. His eyes wandered to the door again.

"Scott, I know you've gone through a lot these last few weeks..." Murdoch began then colored, realizing how trifling his words sounded.

He leaped in. "Sir, what am I to call you? Under the circumstances," he shrugged, " _father_ doesn't seem appropriate somehow."

Murdoch blanched.

He hadn't meant to make the older man uncomfortable, but he had managed it just the same.

"You call him Murdoch-just like me-or 'Sir', when you're tryin' to win an argument with him or get a point across," Johnny said with a half-smile. An unspoken look of gratitude was passed from his father to his brother. They were close, Murdoch and Johnny, he could see it now.

Eli gave a muffled sigh and stood up. "I think it's time for me to turn in. Murdoch, Johnny, see you in the morning. Scott, we need to talk, but it can wait." He clasped him on the shoulder and leaned in with a sad smile. "It'll get better," he whispered.

A corner of his mouth quirked halfway up but his heart wasn't in it. He watched as Eli exited the room, leaving him alone.

Murdoch broke through the silence. "Maybe we can all do with some rest."

Scott got up to get his coat from the back of the chair.

His father looked puzzled. "Son, we have a room for you here."

He hefted the coat in his hand; Tor's jacket was comforting, not only for its warmth. It was something he knew, something that was a part of him. He'd hoped his memory would fall into place after seeing the right people, but he'd been severely disappointed. What would he do now? He looked at the two expectant faces across the room. Somehow he had failed them, and himself, by not remembering.

"If you don't mind, Sir, I have a place already secured."

Johnny and Murdoch shared a look. "But, Scott," Murdoch began, his face clouded, "of course, son, we'll see you in the morning."

His palm was on the doorknob; he turned and looked over his shoulder at his father and brother—both strangers. He opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to tell them he was sorry for the concern he had caused, but the words wouldn't come, so he pressed his lips together and nodded curtly.

He stepped off the boardwalk and looked upwards to the brightly-lit window of the hotel room he just left. He sighed deeply, what had he expected? That his memory would come tripping back, making everything all right? He looked down the street, the saloon was still open and he needed a drink.

He settled into a chair and contemplated the amber fluid in the glass. So, he was Scott Lancer. The name rolled easily enough off his tongue. There just wasn't anything behind it, nothing to link him to the two men. Instead, pictures of Eli, Joe and Tor raced through his mind. Along with images of Pearson and Martinez lying dead beside the railroad.

The bullet wound to his head had wiped the slate clean. Why not ride out and start again, somewhere else? What could hold him to these people, except a bloodline, and would that be enough?

His thoughts were interrupted by a voice at his shoulder.

"Thought I'd find you here."

He nodded to Johnny and lifted his glass. "I'd buy you a drink but it seems I'm a little short on money."

"Well now, that is different. The Scott I know always has fast cash," Johnny said with a grin.

Scott pushed out a chair with his foot. "Maybe I'm not the man you used to know."

Johnny signaled the bartender and sat down. "Maybe…but I think so, underneath all those bristles you're still my brother."

He almost laughed. Bristly—he was at that. He lifted a shoulder and said with a rueful smile, "It was a bit too much back at the hotel."

"Understandable."

The bartender arrived with a bottle. Johnny filled his glass then sat back, shaking his head.

"What is it?" Scott asked.

"I was just thinking of another time when we were sittin' in a saloon. I was about to do something stupid and you stopped along to offer me some advice."

"I hope it was good, because I can't seem to recall it now."

Johnny took a drink then ran his finger around the rim of his glass. "Best advice I've ever gotten, though I didn't think so right at the time."

"Did it help?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Scott's eyes narrowed. "So what's your advice for me?"

Johnny shook his head. "No advice, just something you told me once. It looks to me like you're gonna give up the best thing that's ever happened to you."

He took a sip and felt the liquor burn all the way down to his empty belly. "I wish I remembered how good it was."

Silence reigned, they both reached for the bottle at the same time. Johnny smiled and held it aloft, topping off their glasses.

Scott rubbed his forehead; a headache had started. He eyed Johnny through his fingers. His brother! They looked nothing alike, either of face or in manner.

Johnny looked at him with quiet intensity. "What do you want to know?"

The question caught him off-guard. "You and I, you say we're brothers…how?"

Johnny grinned and his head dipped. "Don't look much alike, do we? Same father, different mothers. We never even knew each other existed outside of two years ago." His head came up abruptly. "You came first. Yours was from Boston, mine from Mexico. In fact, you spent a long time back east before coming to Lancer."

"And you…didn't."

"No, I was spendin' my time somewhere else."

"So, neither of us was raised at Lancer?"

"Uh-huh. Long story short…the old man sent for us. He was having some problems with high riders and a man named Pardee."

"He sent for us to help him rout this man from the ranch?" He couldn't keep the incredulity out of his voice.

Johnny nodded with a smile. "He made it worth our while. We're one third owners."

Scott raised an eyebrow at the news **.**

"But he likes to call the shots."

"Somehow I can see that. What's he like, Murdoch I mean."

His newly-found brother shrugged. "He's a fair man and is as tough as anyone I've met, but you can hold your own with him. Fact of the matter is that we make a good team—together."

Johnny drained his glass. "Scott, the old man, he's been taking it hard ever since we found out you were missing. He may dance around it but I won't…are you coming back to Lancer with us?"

It was too soon for that question. And from the look on his face, his brother knew it as well as he did. He took his time, watching the liquor roll back and forth in the glass as he tipped it. "I don't know yet," he said quietly.

"You have a lot going for you, brother. I guess that's the difference between me back then and you now. I just hope Murdoch and I can still be a part of it."

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny stepped into the doctor's office; he'd finished at the sheriff's and was anxious to see what was going on with Scott. Last night had been a disaster, at least in his mind. He was worried. Scott hadn't left him with a good feeling in the saloon.

It was warm and inviting from the biting cold outside. Eli, standing by the hearth, nodded to him and raised his shoulders in a non-committal way. He heard Murdoch's muted voice and Scott's answering one from within the other room. The door opened and the doctor stepped out.

"Your brother's wounds have healed well, thanks to this man," he cocked a head towards Eli. "There's nothing wrong with Scott that a few days sleeping in a clean bed and regular meals won't take care of."

"What about his memory?" Johnny asked.

The doctor shook his head and sighed. "That's a different matter. There are no assurances. It will either come back with time…or not. I'm sorry, son, I just don't have any answers for you."

Johnny looked to the closed door.

Doctor Powell put a hand on his arm. "Give them a bit of time, Johnny. Scott has some decisions to make. And it's not easy for a father to realize he might lose a son-if that's what happens. Especially to something that no one can see physically." He squeezed his arm in sympathy. "I can imagine it would be hard for a brother, too, but give them a few minutes alone."

#-#-#-#-#

With his beard shaved off, the reddened scar at Scott's temple peeked out past the hairline then disappeared past his ear. The darkened circles below his son's eyes spoke volumes of what had transpired during the time he was missing, even if he didn't. Scott hadn't said but a few sentences since the gunfight.

It had been too close this time yet damage had still been done. Scott's normally erect posture was slumped, as if a heavy weight tugged his shoulders downward. His tightly crossed arms gave him away, in juxtaposition with his casual lean against the cabinet door. It was a stance that Murdoch knew well—one of hardened determination.

"Son…," he began. He was fumbling for the right words, knowing he had to say something to keep him from leaving. He hadn't come all this way just to lose him, not now.

The bowed head rose. The look in Scott's eyes tore at Murdoch's heart. There was a spark of distrust there, as if everything was new and he was trying to figure it all out. He reached out to clasp his son's shoulder but the look of wariness stopped him and his hand dropped uselessly back to his side.

It reminded him of the very first time they had met at Lancer. Scott had fire in his eyes back then, much like now. Murdoch took a deep breath and began again, "I'm asking you to ride back to Lancer with your brother and me."

"Sir…," Scott interjected.

"Hear me out. I can only guess what might be going through your mind right now. I'm asking for some time."

Scott rounded on him, giving full vent to his frustration and edginess. "Time for what? To go back to something that holds nothing for me? Or to listen to you and Johnny reminisce about things I have no memory of?"

He turned away. "How long do I wait for my memory to come back? Another month, a year? What if it doesn't come back?" His voice dropped lower. "And how long will it take for you to understand I'm not the man you once knew?"

"I don't think you're giving us or yourself much credit," Murdoch replied. "You're the same man, memory or not, Scott. I can see it. It will just take time."

He did clasp Scott's shoulder then, ignoring the flinch, if only to give himself the pleasure of touching him. "You're still my son. Regardless of your decision to come back home with us or leave on your own, that fact will never change. And you'll always have a place at Lancer."

"Think it over, Scott. I'm willing to wait on your answer, or a promise to come later, but Johnny and I need to start back to the ranch in a few days."

Murdoch walked out, whisking the door shut behind him.

It was quiet in the exam room as he looked out the window. The door slid open on a whisper. There wasn't a knock and he didn't know why it irritated him so. Johnny stood before him, all loose-limbed and nonchalant. Except for his left hand, lightly curled around a concho on his pant leg, one finger wearing at the rim with constant strokes. Those damn conchos. He'd been so sure, seeing Johnny running at him, sure that he was the same man as on the ridge.

"Scott, what did you say to Murdoch? I'm just wondering, because I haven't seen him wear a look like that since the day you went missing from the ranch, and Cassidy's wife showed up. She told him you were dead or just as good as."

He frowned and thought hard. Cassidy…the name sounded familiar, but the man and his wife remained blank images. Scott moved from the cabinet to the window. He looked out for a few moments then looked back at Johnny. "What do you want from me?"

Johnny's voice was soft. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe my brother back, is all. We had a good thing, kind of hate to see it end.

"Mainly, I want you to give us a chance, Scott. I know what happens when you get your back up about something. A string of mules couldn't change your mind, but if you're unsure-which is what I think is going on now-well, you always give the benefit of a doubt. So why not listen now, and take a chance on comin' home. Even for a short time. You never know, it may work out."

Scott contemplated the man before him, their eyes meeting across the room. It was a fair enough proposal, but there should have been something-some remembrances to go along with it. His confidence shaken, he peeled back the window curtain and exhaled. Being with his father and brother but having no memory of them somehow made him feel lonelier now more than ever.

tbc


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Standing by the livery doors, Murdoch and Johnny watched Eli approach Scott by the corral. When Scott turned to greet him, they saw a brown-paper wrapped package tucked under his arm and the battered envelope in his hand.

Johnny leaned in to his father. "He's not coming, Murdoch. I know the look."

"Maybe, but if there's one thing I know about Scott it's that he doesn't hesitate to see things through. And things aren't settled for him yet. We can only ask him to come home, to try and give it some time.

You have more faith than I do. Maybe Eli can get to him," murmured Johnny.

They listened in to snatches of the conversation between the two men at the fence.

"Still holding that envelope, I see," Eli said.

Scott grinned wryly and nodded. "As well as the Sorensen contracts—now signed—I can't seem to let them go. Although I did for a short while, I suppose."

Eli leaned against the corral. "A lot of things happened in that short time, Scott."

"It seems odd to have you call me by my real name."

"What am I suppose to call you? Daniel? God help us both. That name never did fit."

Scott handed Eli the package.

"What's this?" Eli asked.

Scott smiled. "It's 'Robinson Crusoe', Joe may find it a little more to his liking than Dickens."

Eli fiddled with the rough twine around it. "About Joe…and Marshal Conklin."

Scott stiffened.

"I'm sorry for turning you over to Conklin. I was wrong, had a feeling back then you were all right, but I _know_ it now. I should have gone with my instincts. Hell, even the dog liked you—that should have been my first clue."

"I'm not so sure I would have trusted me back then. You had to protect Joe. I understood that, and still do." He held out his hand.

Eli took it and shook firmly. "What will you do now? I know Murdoch and Johnny are looking forward to you riding home with them."

He gave a surreptitious glance to the men standing close by. "It's difficult. I want to go, but it won't be the same for them or me."

Scott took the contracts out and unfolded them. "All of this for these few pieces of paper. I could keep asking why, but that's not getting me anywhere. I have it in my mind to go back east. Johnny said I was raised there for a while—maybe it'll spark something."

Eli shook his head. "You don't belong there." At Scott's look he added, "My two cents worth anyway. I'm a father and I know I would want my son with me, not a thousand or more miles away. Murdoch asked you to stay didn't he?"

Scott nodded.

"Then take whatever time you need, but get back to Lancer." He tipped his head to the livery. "Because those two men deserve to have their son and brother back with them, in whatever shape he comes in. You don't belong only to yourself, Scott, you belong to them, too. At least a little. Maybe one day you'll understand."

Eli straightened away from the fence, balancing the book on the flattened top of a post. "I think I'll leave Mr. Crusoe with you, you'll need to pass by my place on the way home. Stop by and drop it off, Joe will want to see you again."

"Isn't that bribery, Eli?"

"I wouldn't call it that. Just something a friend would do for another friend, to point him in the right direction." Eli sighed. "I've been away from my boy for too long, I need to get on the trail, so this is goodbye, or maybe just so long."

He turned and walked into the livery.

Scott traced the spiky scratches of Sorensen's name on the contracts with his thumb and compared it to the bold flourishes on the envelope. Something was so close…if he could just brush away the curtain that was hiding all of his memories. He stuffed the contracts back into the envelope when Johnny walked up **.**

"Come on Scott, stop and talk to me. Wherever you're trying to go, it can wait, can't it? The old man searched a long time for you. These contracts you've been lookin' over for so long...they're just paper and ink, but Murdoch over there is flesh and blood. The least you could do is give him a chance. Hell, give _us_ a chance."

Scott gave a quick glance to Eli's departing back. Finally, he nodded.

#-#-#-#-#

The ride from Ironton was prickly quiet, each man lost in their own thoughts. Scott gave a sigh of relief when he saw smoke coming from the chimney in the little stone cabin. Jenny welcomed them with her loud braying.

"Sonny, you got more names than anyone I know." Tor smiled widely, showing white teeth clenched around his pipe. "But for sure, the right one is the best one, ya? Although I can tell it still don't sit so good with you."

Tor looked at him intently. For all he knew, the older man might be able to read his thoughts, to recognize the realization that had sunk into Scott's brain.

"Ah, don't look so glum. What do I know? Just an old Norski who don't know when to keep quiet."

Scott could see Tor regretted having spoken. "I appreciate the use of your horse."

"Well, you took good care of' im. Just so you know, Marshal Conklin got his old nag back again. Them other things you keep." He patted his full belly. "I'm too big for that coat now anyway."

Tor tapped his pipe against his boot heel, spilling out old ash. "It wouldn't be the end of the world, if them memories didn't come right back, ya? I mean, you got people to see to and them to you."

The old man had been on his own for many long years. No wife, no children.

"But?" Tor looked kind.

Scott spoke slowly. "You're right, it's not the end of the world, but I suppose I thought…hoped they would come back sooner rather than later." A hollow space opened within him. He couldn't put words to what he'd lost. And even if he could, who would he tell? Everything he had been attached to in the world was gone.

The urgency he felt to regain his memories was like an insistent canary in a mine, warning him of danger, but it was too late.

"I'd ask you to stay but I can see you got things to do." Tor pushed his pipe between his teeth and his gruff voice lowered to an almost whisper, "Sonny, if things don't work out, you got a place here."

Grateful, he clasped Tor's hand.

#-#-#-#-#

Johnny was digging in his saddlebags but Scott wasn't looking at anything, just staring at the forest as though he'd find his memories hanging off the tree limbs, ready to pluck. Murdoch acknowledged that the last few weeks were awful for everyone concerned—yet it had the potential to get so much worse if Scott didn't recover his memory. They were halfway between Tor's cabin and Eli's house, and his son had gone quiet about anything that truly mattered.

Murdoch juggled three steaming cups. "Here we are. I can't vouch for the taste, but it's hot at least." He handed one cup to Johnny, another to Scott, and kept the third for himself.

Johnny took a sip and whistled through his teeth. "Who-ee, I'll say it's hot. You know, if you hadn't become such a big rancher, you could've made a respectable cook."

Scott tipped his coffee back and forth. "Notice he didn't say anything about the taste, just the temperature."

"I did notice that. Faint praise, indeed, Johnny." Murdoch lifted his cup in a salute. "Cheers." He took a sip then sighed.

"When I was a young man in Scotland, I had ideas about being a seafaring man, not a cook. I sometimes feel that my life is a series of accidents and chances. It's quite hard to relinquish all expectations of control." He chuckled.

"So what happened to the seafaring man, Murdoch?" Johnny asked.

"He got seasick. All those years in Inverness staring at the ocean and the first ship I get on goes to America. It took me halfway across to find my sea legs." He shuddered. "Never again."

"I've found that going to the lee side and just letting it go almost always helps the situation. But don't ever use the…" Scott broke off when he and Johnny stared at him.

"I was going to say, don't ever use the trash bin because the crew won't like it." He rubbed his forehead. "Now how did I know that?"

"What ship were you on Scott? Perhaps some trip with your Grandfather?"

"I have no idea."

The puzzlement in his son's eyes tore at Murdoch.

"Scott, I don't presume to know what you're going through, but maybe I understand, at least a little of it." When he looked up, Murdoch continued.

"I left Scotland in hopes of a brighter future. We heard tales of plenty in the new land, oranges the size of baking potatoes and fields of grain waving under sunny skies. As it happened, I found my future with your mother and later, with Johnny's mother, at Lancer. But I remember the day I left Inverness clearly. As poor as we were, at least I had family nearby, people who knew me. We shared traditions, and a way of looking at the world. I didn't know until I left it all and found myself standing on the dock in Boston, how much I took that for granted. Or how alone a person can be in a crowd of people."

Scott dipped his head.

Murdoch took another sip of coffee. It had cooled and that hadn't helped its taste any.

"The more I try to remember, the more I realize," Scott tapped the side of his head where the scar showed, "I have nothing there _to_ remember. It's all rather…"

"Overwhelming?"

"Yes. Definitely overwhelming. And frustrating." Scott hesitated. "But there is one thing I've found."

Murdoch's eyebrows shot up. "What is it?"

The side of his mouth quirked up in a sly grin so Scott-like it should be patented—although this one didn't reach his tired eyes. "I don't care for your coffee."

Johnny huffed out a loud laugh.

#-#-#-#-#

He left Murdoch and Johnny quietly talking around the fire. Scott yawned and rubbed his eyes. They were gritty from lack of sleep. What did he know about ships and oceans? His grandfather? Try as he might, Scott couldn't remember. It was too late and he was too tired, his thoughts blurred as his vision.

He yawned again, an insistent headache pulsing at his temples. It had started after they left Tor's cabin and had only gotten worse with each mile ridden. He felt the inside of his pocket for the envelope as he'd done so many times before, but it was bare. He'd given it back to Murdoch after they left the city. Closing, his eyes he slid into a familiar dream about endless green grass, the sun coming over the mountains, and suddenly, unexpectedly, a large adobe house sitting in the middle of it all.

The sound of wood popping in a fire and hushed voices woke him.

When he opened his eyes, firelight glinted off silver conchos. Martinez and Pearson were crouched around the campfire, talking. Something was passed from one man to the other.

He didn't think, just flung his blanket away from him and charged towards Martinez. The man gasped out loud when Scott hit him from behind.

"Don't you move." Scott flattened him against the ground, coming within inches of his face.

As Martinez squirmed and twisted underneath him, Scott sent out a fist and felt the satisfying crack of it against the man's jaw, a thin stream of blood whipping out and splattering the dirt as his head whipped to the side. Then he was grabbed from behind and dragged off, even as he fought to land another punch.

Scott yanked against the man, violent and wild with intent.

Strong arms wrapped tighter around his waist and chest the more he struggled. "Stop it, son! Just stop." He lowered his voice. "Johnny's your brother. Martinez is gone. He's dead."

The words finally penetrated. Scott blinked down, horror-stricken. The ground blurred beneath his feet. He felt nothing—no headache, no pain, not even the need to breathe. Recognition hit him like an ocean wave, and the world tumbled, falling away. Past and present collided, overlapping and blending until he no longer knew which was which.

A lifetime of images and memories—true memories—crashed into him. Barreling at him like a million drops of water, his memories lodged and implanted themselves in his conscious mind. But it was too much, too fast, and he recoiled from the forcefulness of it all.

Both the memories and Murdoch's relaxed grip sent him sprawling to the ground. Scott twitched to a hard sit and closed his eyes.

Murdoch grasped his shoulder and squeezed. "Slow your breathing." He put his hand on Scott's chest. "You need to take some deep breaths." Murdoch waited a moment, allowing him to ride out each wave. "That's better. You're going to be okay."

But his eyes were wide with worry.

Scott looked at Johnny then Murdoch, and back again. Their expressions morphed from panic to confusion to sheer surprise. He slumped back as the memories flowed into him, some of them so strong he felt as if his head was ripping apart.

After several moments his breathing returned to normal. He focused, grabbing a fistful of black jacket and faded red shirt.

"Johnny?" He squinted hard at the man in front of him licking the blood off his lip.

Johnny smiled then, a full, toothy grin. "Welcome back, brother. It's about time."

The End

2009 revised 05/'16


End file.
